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“Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.”
- John Donne
I
He watched her sleep and dreamed of sunlight. It streamed through the blinds in ribbons, cutting her scars and her skin into lines made of yellow.
He watched her sleep and dreamed of memories. They were always there at the edge of his mind. Her, in a backdrop of green. Her, curled on the couch. Her, hands stained purple from berries picked from the bushes behind her father’s house.
He took a pen and paper from his bedside table. He wrote down everything he loved about her. He filled the page.
II
Rummaging through someone’s memories for snippets of yourself was like running your fingers over every book in a library searching for all the titles with a ‘Q’ in them. There was working memory, short-term and long; semantic and episodic and procedural. Roy had to be careful with them. Sometimes short-term and working seemed similar on the surface and deciding which one to cull was like cutting the red wire while colorblind. Procedural memory was fun. With the right tools Roy could make a man forget the steps to tying his tie, though he would still remember having done it many times before. Semantic memory rarely, if at all, needed to be meddled with. If Roy traveled too far into that proverbial wolves’ den, well, entire laws and histories might be forgotten.
Minds were as pliable as putty. You could, as someone who manipulates memories, plant your fingerprints into the wet, wrinkled folds, imprinting pieces of yourself into someone else’s head. The truth was that memories could be fabricated as easily as they were wiped away. It was terrifying, really. Memories were not infallible. They were quite often the most unreliable source of information. Retrospective. They could be molded and shrouded; cut and pasted over. The notion that memory was to be trusted had been dying slowly for decades, especially in police circles, where witness testimonies were becoming more useless by the day. Alchemists had been saying for decades that memory was perceived, not absolute. Bias threw shade over everything a person knew until even their most long-standing beliefs were caught under that dark umbrella of personal truth which might not even be a truth at all.
Roy had been poring over memories for as long as he could remember. He used to rent great big tomes from libraries out east and stack them high in his room at the Hawkeye’s. He’d sit cross-crossed on his bed and use his knees as a table, the lamp flicking firelight over the pages and the small, almost imperceptible text. It was all quite beautiful, the drawings of synapses and neurons and neural connections that looked like lighted roadways or connecting stars. The human brain was a galaxy, as infinite as it was mysterious, and Roy was obsessed with it.
Fast-forward to nearly a decade-and-a-half later and Roy has expanded his repertoire to include decimation of the physical kind. He was as adept at disintegrating the human body as he was at dismembering the human mind. It was a secret, though, this ability of his to scramble memories like eggs. Why did anyone need to know, anyhow? It was his precious thing, his failsafe, his guarded heart.
And it would ruin him.
III
He erased himself from her memories on a Sunday. It was easiest that way.
Fuhrer Bradley approved Roy’s request because Roy assured him any damage done could be undone. Roy, hands oddly calm, still, like water before a rain. Bradley, face stony, brow pulled together tight over his eyes.
“I was confused by your request, Colonel Mustang. Has First Lieutenant Hawkeye been unsatisfactory? You approached General Grumman personally and asked that she be reassigned here to Central with you.”
“She has not been unsatisfactory, sir.” Roy wanted that much to be clear, whether he meant for her to rejoin the military or not he wanted her to leave with her reputation intact. She would need support wherever she went from here and Roy intended to be that for her. Anonymously, or however she needed it. “I understand you did not know I had this skill. I understand what that might mean for me, as a government owned state alchemist. I never intended to use this alchemy, however I believe it would be beneficial in this case.”
Bradley, obviously miffed, steepled his fingers. “It is problematic, Colonel Mustang. The alchemy state alchemists possessed is sanctioned by the Amestrian government. This is non-negotiable. I should have received a demonstration of such alchemy before you were granted your post.”
“I understand, sir. I will take reprimand as you see fit.” This would suit Roy, who was going behind his lieutenant’s – his Riza’s – back. Who was betraying her and himself in every definition of the word. Who would, one day, be held accountable for his and her sins and his sins again, threefold, wherein he will bow to one knee and submit to a power that will strip him of his skin and render him nothing more than the coward he was. “I did not make this request lightly. Although it may seem steep and impossible, I promise you Lieutenant Hawkeye is well aware of my intent. Permission is a formality so that she may leave gracefully and with the full support of her former employer.”
And so no one will inadvertently remind her of her life pre-memory wipe. It was safest this way, to take the road most surveyed.
“You owe me a demonstration, Mustang. Consider this to be it.”
He pulled her close, the smell of gunpowder in her hair tugging at his heart. He would miss this. He would miss her; he lamented that the way she felt, the way she spoke to him, the feel of her calloused hands wrapping around the back of his neck would be nostalgic.
It would be his memory.
IV.I
Edward’s stomach gave a heady rumble. He’d forgotten to pack food before he boarded the train a day-and-a-half ago, and all they offered him on board were complimentary crackers and little cans of water and soda. He didn’t care for the crackers and slept most all the way through the train ride, so he chugged a soda upon waking and rationalized that he could get something to eat near headquarters. His stomach was protesting.
“You should have accepted the crackers, Brother.” Al chided. He had three packs of them in his metal body, the plastic wrapping crinkling with every metallic step. Though he had no stomach or mouth or anything somatic like that, Al had manners that were sometimes too strong for him to overcome. He’d graciously accepted all the crackers offered to him, hiding them away behind his chest plate in hopes of coaxing Ed into eating.
“I don’t want those things, Al.” Ed waved him off. “They taste like paper. They’re the unsalted ones too, I can tell.”
“How can you tell without even trying them, Brother?”
“Because I can, Al.” He’d tried them once before on another train a long time ago and he hadn’t been impressed. Trains never had anything good to eat, not unless you were one of the lucky ones who could afford to sit in the front most cars where waiters came to you with trays of steamy food. Ed could technically afford it, but he didn’t care very much for the company those cars tended to keep. Generals and old guys with heavy pockets, their wives hugging the car window, quiet and uninhabited. Like dolls.
Ed stopped at his favorite sandwich place; a little hole-in-the-wall called Sandow’s Sandwiches. It was run by a mom and pop (or a grandmom and grandpop, but Al wouldn’t let Ed call them that) and they served interesting stuff like boar and pickled radish sliced thin and tucked into a hoagie. Ed hadn’t gathered the courage yet to try it, but Al added it to his list of things he would one day like to eat.
“When you haven’t eaten a single thing in years,” he’d said, “anything sounds good, Brother.”
The bell above the shop’s front door dinged as Ed entered. There was no one behind the counter, so he waited by the fridge of cake slices, his stomach roiling from the sweet smell of sugar. Along with great sandwiches, Sandow’s had the best cake icing known to man. Ed typically ate it by the glob from his fingers, leaving the cake naked.
He picked out a nice white cake with pink icing and tucked it under his arm, waiting patiently for Mr. or Mrs. Sandow to come greet him. Outside the air was sticky and wet, but inside Sandow’s it was dry and cool. The grey-and-blue tiled floor was shining and chilled beneath Ed’s boots. Even with how thick his boots were Ed could feel the soles of his foot going cold. The hairs on his arms stood straight up, icing. The hum of the giant refrigerators vibrated in his chest.
“Hello, Ed.” Mrs. Sandow said, wringing her glistening wet hands on her apron. “So sorry for the wait. Earl needed me to do some carving back there.” She thrust her thumb over her shoulder and in the direction of the back end of the store. In the wall behind the counter was a lone rectangle covered by two sheets, no door. Behind that there were rows of large coolers tucked tightly together from corner to corner, squaring the center of the room where Mr. and Mrs. Sandow kept their carving tables, butcher knives strung up on chains and laid out over leather.
“Hey,” Ed said, and slid his cake onto the counter by the register. “I’ll take this and a turkey with mustard on sourdough, please.”
“And a pickle?” Mrs. Sandow asked, punching Ed’s order into the register.
“Yeah,” Ed said.
“No cheese?”
“Not this time.”
“Coming right up.” Mrs. Sandow smiled. She had not a lot of teeth left, and the ones she did have were precarious at best, but her smiles were still really warm. The wrinkles on her face seemed to converge around her eyes and mouth, and her close-cropped white hair shimmered in the fluorescent light. Sometimes Ed would come in and she’d have a basket of cookies on the counter. One Dollar Each, the little stand card would say, but she’d winked at Ed once and told him he could have one for free.
Mrs. Sandow gave Ed his sandwich in a red plastic basket lined with paper. “Don’t eat the cake first, Ed.”
Ed grinned. “I’ll try.”
Al waited for him outside, his large body leaning against the brick storefront. He always waited outside of Sandow’s, afraid he might knock something over and cause the couple trouble. Ed had assured him they wouldn’t see it as trouble, but Al was not convinced.
“What did you get?” Al said.
Ed picked up half his sandwich – Mrs. Sandow always cut them for him – and bit a chunk off. “Thurkey and musthard,” he said around his mouthful. It was hard to balance the cake and the basket while he ate so Al took the cake from him, holding it with practiced care in his big hands.
“I can’t wait to try it.” Al said.
“It’ll happen soon, Al.” Ed said, forcing the rest of the sandwich half into his mouth. Al said something about not choking, but Ed didn’t mind him. The food was too good, and his stomach was already feeling less volatile.
V.I
Even angry she was beautiful.
Alight like fire, she lashed out and struck him, heated and terrifying, her words scorching, deadly.
He withdrew. She was spitting flames at him like he spit flames from his fingers. They started as spindly little things, then converged and blew. He felt the heat spread over his face, his arms. He felt it soak into the cotton over his chest. He wanted to scream or cry.
There were a million things happening outside. Over her wailing he heard the distant pops of firearms, recalling his time at the Hawkeye house when he would crack open his bedroom window and listen for her. He always knew when she was coming home because he’d hear the pops fly over the tops of the trees, and if he didn’t hear more twenty or so minutes later, then that meant she’d found herself a kill.
These pops never stopped, not even after they’d hit their mark, not even in his sleep.
He ran his fingers over the smooth silver of his pocket watch, over the grooves that sat upon it, forming an insignia which was all at once tantalizing and disgusting. He couldn’t believe he’d ever wanted it so badly. He should never have left her alone in that house in the first place. Not with Berthold Hawkeye, not with all the ink overflowing from glass jars, smeared over his wooden desktop. Above the pops there was the sound of sand scratching at the tent, begging to be let in, and the strangled shouts of men and women, their clothes sealed to their skin with sweat and dirt. The engine to a utility vehicle barreled by, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
Above all of that there was her, the diffused sunlight rinsing her hair a white yellow. Her eyes were like molten lava, angry. Her lips were pressed into a solid line which he knew to be a tell of hers. He wanted badly to press his thumb to her lips and set her free, but she’d probably bite him or worse, turn away.
He tried to speak for the first time. “Miss Riza—”
She turned on him, smoke frothing from her mouth. “Cadet Hawkeye,” she hissed. Her index finger punched his chest and he winced inwardly where she couldn’t see. He felt the indent there even after she turned away again, tears glistening in the summer heat, like a single, singed dot over his uniform.
He wanted to gather her into his arms.
“Miss Riza,” he tried again, touching her elbow. The contact seemed to make her shrink, took the volume out of her. He expected her to elbow him but instead she dropped her arm to her side and out of his reach. He amended. “Cadet Hawkeye,” he said. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Cadet Hawkeye please, God,” he paused, rubbing his hand over his face. He was so tired. “Please talk to me.”
“I’ve been talking to you, sir.” She muttered. Her one arm stayed limp by her side, but the other reached upward so she could cup her face in her hand. From this position, her shoulders hunched forward, he could see just how small she had become. Her body couldn’t fill her jacket, her hips weren’t hugged by her slacks but held loosely onto, like a lazy hug, and there, down the cavern of her jacket, beneath her nape, he could see the offending lines of ink.
“You’ve been yelling.” He said. He averted his gaze. It was too much, it was all too much.
“So make me talk,” she said, voice contemptuous. That tone was for him. Solely for him. “You have that power, Major Mustang. So make me talk. Order me to.” She challenged.
He tasted the words on his tongue. They needed to talk – he had so much to say – and as the part of him that didn’t want to tip their scales warred with the part that was desperate enough to do it, he said, “Tell me what’s on your mind, Cadet Hawkeye. That’s an order.”
“What’s on my mind is that you’ve scarred me, Roy.” She said. “My dreams and your dreams were one in the same. You said such pretty things to me that day. You enraptured me in a way no one ever has. I trusted you and you took that trust and burned it up with all the innocents.”
Roy shifted his weight over the sands. He felt like he was underground, his mouth filling with sand. His lungs going hard.
It wouldn’t be enough to say that he was sorry. It wouldn’t be enough to promise to do right, or to swear that this had never been his intention. He slid the pocket watch into his pocket, shucked off his gloves, and touched his bare hand to hers. Her fingers curled around his instinctively, like it’s what they were made to do.
He got closer to her, his chest almost flush with her back, and let his lips dust the hair at her nape. Her grip on his became vice-like.
“If it hurts too badly,” he said, his mouth moving over her skin, “then I can do that for you, Riza.”
She laughed once, bitter and dark. “Is that what you want? You want to forget?”
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s cowardly.”
“Yes,” he said. He traced the circle over her skin with his mouth, wanting and not wanting to set her free.
IV.II
Ed grabbed an ice cream cone from a pop-up on his way into Headquarters. Sometimes old guys with greying beards would put up on street corners, their little fridges buzzing, condensation pooling on the asphalt. Usually they only had chocolate and vanilla but today they had strawberry, and Ed got a swirled cone with it and vanilla. He lapped at it like a dog while Al nagged him about all the sweets he’d eaten and about how sugar rotted your teeth.
“Cake and ice cream, Brother?”
“I only ate the icing, Al.”
“It still counts, Ed.”
The sun was high, its light glanced off corner windows and made the road shimmer with heat. It didn’t take Ed’s ice cream long before it started to melt into his palm, crawling down the sugar cone and his automail fingers. He pressed his tongue to his metal fingers and licked it off, groaning because he knew it would get sticky and he’d have to take the time to clean it later. Groaning because what he had to do in this moment was talk to the colonel and groaning because he would rather clean his automail ten times over then spend even two minutes at the end of Colonel Mustang’s nose.
Ed stuffed his face with the last of his ice cream cone and wiped his hands on his shirt. Normally he wouldn’t do that, but it needed to be washed anyway. It was still gritty from Ed’s altercation(s) in Rush Valley. Altercations that, when asked by Colonel Mustang, Ed would pretend had gone more smoothly than they really had.
They were several blocks from Central Headquarters when Ed spotted her. She was walking their way, books under her right arm, her chin turned down toward the pavement. She was looking at something, a flimsy sheet of crinkled paper, a pen in her hand. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, just a flowy white blouse over an ankle-length skirt. And her hair was down, blonde billowing out behind her as she walked.
There was something off about the scene, something serene yet broken. All at once Ed felt like he was looking in on another world, like someone had cracked his head open and poured lies into it.
She was about to pass them on the sidewalk when Ed called out to her. “Hey, Lieutenant Hawkeye.”
She gave him a sideways glance, pausing for a moment as if to search her memory bank for his face and name. “Hello, Ed,” she finally said. Ed breathed a little sigh of relief. “What brings you two here to Central?”
Ed sucked in air. Al’s massive, clanking body shifted. He said something when Ed couldn’t. “We’re just getting back from Rush Valley. Ed’s got to go debrief the colonel.”
“Oh,” The lieutenant said. Not “yes, of course.” Not “please don’t fight with him, Ed.” Not “just a written report will be fine.” Just Oh.
“What are you doing, Lieutenant?” Ed asked. The way she looked at him like she had never heard those words in that order before sent Ed’s stomach plummeting.
“It’s just ‘Riza,’ Ed.” She said. “And I’m on my way from the fuhrer’s office. He invited me to afternoon tea. I’m writing a piece about Drachman officials visiting Headquarters, and the fuhrer requested me by name. I’m not sure why.”
Ed was thoroughly confused. A piece? The fuhrer? Drachma? His brain was working so fast he could feel the beginnings of a headache, but he couldn’t put any of what she was saying together.
“Did the colonel give you the day off?” Al asked.
Maybe she hit her head, maybe she was messing with them, maybe she had a twin Ed didn’t know about, maybe Lieutenant Havoc put her up to it.
“The colonel?” She said.
“Colonel Mustang,” Al said.
And then the strangest thing happened. Riza Hawkeye fisted the paper in her hand, her brown eyes widening, and sobbed quietly on the sidewalk.
V.II
He’d make her a journalist. She was already technically good at writing. She made perfect marks in all her classes, but she made the perfect of perfect marks in literature. Roy could pull strings, enroll her at Central University, sign her up for the journalism club. It was as unethical as it was necessary.
And it was necessary. There could be no doubt in his mind – not now, not later – because he’d already set his mind. He already spoke with Fuhrer Bradley, began making arrangements, and there couldn’t be any doubt because that doubt might trickle into her. Into her brain, into who she was, and Roy couldn’t let that happen. If he was going to wipe her, he had to make sure it was a clean wipe. He would leave no residue behind, nothing that might trigger her brain into recognition.
He could be a stranger. Their past, nothing. That was all right. That would have to be all right, there was no room for it to be anything else.
V.III
“What would you be if you hadn’t been this?” Roy asked her. She was settled over him, her hips sinking into his. Her hair thrown over his left shoulder, tickling his bicep.
“A teacher, maybe,” she said. Her chest buzzed against his. “Or a tutor.”
“An academic?” Roy asked. He ran his fingers through her hair, and she sighed.
“What are you fishing for, sir?”
Roy winced. That honorific, in his bed, meant she was coming down from their shared high. It meant she was going to morph back into the lieutenant soon, and that he’d have to follow suit as her colonel.
She twisted over him, rolling off his side. Her hair followed and soon it was sprawled out over the pillow, her back to him, red-black lines exploded in his vision. All at once that was all he could see, all that he could know. She reached her hand out, stretched it toward the bedroom window, and then closed her fist against the evening light.
“You don’t need to be so sad for me.” She said. “You are not my protector, Mr. Mustang. He was wrong to place such a burden on you.”
Irritation flared in Roy’s chest. Burden? If she thought herself a burden on him, then what did she think of him? He was, by his account, the man who had ruined her life. “Caring about you is not a burden.” He said. “After nearly ten years I would hope that would be clear.”
She hummed. Dust motes danced in the air above her head, in the dark yellow light that pierced her bedroom. Roy had the uncomfortable sensation of stumbling, of his world being thrown off balance. He couldn’t be sure whether it was because of her words or the motive behind his staying with her. But something shifted. The sunlight bent, angled into her face, and became so bright that Roy only saw a halo, a shadow of where her head was. He could no longer discern features as the light brightened so much that it washed everything else out.
He pressed his fingertips to the nape of Riza’s neck. The light kept growing, twisting, it was brightening everything that it could touch. Just as he practiced, Roy drew the transmutation circle over Riza’s skin. A small rune, a little ring of nondescript letters he’d made up but that worked well for him anyway. He’d done this to exactly two people in his lifetime: Aunt Christ and Veronica.
The sunlight gave one large swell, a breath, and Roy pressed his lips to the back of Riza’s neck. Tears, electric red, and she whispered, “I love you.”
IV.III
Ed ran from Lieutenant Hawkeye. He ran from Al, who took longer strides than Ed but who couldn’t catch him anyway. Ed’s mind was on a loop, all he knew were the questions. The why and the what and how. It all felt so wrong, so off, like someone had flattened the world and left it slanted on its axis, like he might slide off its edge into a vat of nothing. Stars, black, the sun, black, black, black. It didn’t make sense.
Ed burst through the doors of Central Headquarters gasping on air. He had no breath. He felt like he’d run it all out of him, like he hadn’t taken in air since before that first tear drew a line down Lieutenant Hawkeye’s face. His body was static, the phantom pain in his limbs arcing over him in waves. He knew he ought to learn to control himself, but the panic was too much. As Al slid into Central HQ behind him, Ed made a sharp turn on his heel and headed for Colonel’s Mustang’s office.
His body was better when he was running. The compression on his joints, the feel of the floor beating into his foot. He worried for a second that all the jostling movement would cause his stomach to void the Sandow’s sandwich, but by the time he made it to Colonel Mustang’s office, panting and sweating, he was okay again.
“Ed,” Al called. His hulking metal body was ringing against the floor. He slammed a heavy hand over the door to the colonel’s outer office, where Sargent Fuery, Warrant Officer Falman, and Lieutenants Breda and Havoc worked, so that Ed couldn’t open it. “You can’t go and barge in there, Brother. Not like this.”
“Like hell I can’t.” said Ed. His chest was burning. He splayed his fingers out over the door, pushed his arms up, tried to open his chest. It was still so hard to breathe. “We’re supposed to meet with him, Al.”
“To debrief,” Al said, “not to fight, Ed.”
Ed smiled. Just a little one, half-hearted, the rim tinged with anger. Al knew him so well. “If he messed with her somehow, Al…” He trailed off, not really knowing what he would do or even what he was insinuating. If the colonel did what to her? What could he have done? Was it any of Ed’s business, anyway? He liked Lieutenant Hawkeye – he liked her a lot – but what was decided by her in her private life or by Mustang as her superior was between them. Ed had nothing to do with it.
But the way she’d cried…
“Let me in, Al.” said Ed. “I won’t go in guns blazing. I need to know.”
Al considered, the light of his eyes narrowing to slits and then filling the round cutouts in his helmet again. He removed his hand, but tentatively, like it was conditional.
Ed forced himself to enter the room at a normal pace. Everything about it was unchanged since the last time he’d been here. Lieutenant Havoc was still seated beside Lieutenant Breda, and Sargent Fuery across from them. Warrant Officer Falman was nestled between the fake plant and the bookshelf, one hand holding his chin up while the other cradled a book beneath his nose. There was no Lieutenant Hawkeye. Her lack of presence sat heavy in the room, and Ed was uncomfortable again. As heads turned to look at him, he felt like he’d walked in on a wake.
Lieutenant Havoc had no witty quip for him. He just inclined his head and said, “Hey, Ed.” He returned to his work without another word, head bent over a piece of paper embellished with the fuhrer’s gold-and-green seal. Sargent Fuery looked up from where he was tinkering with a communicator, his eyes red and puffy, and waved.
“If you’re wanting to see the boss, Ed, I’d give it a day or two.” Breda intoned. He didn’t look up but kept writing instead, scribbling something over lined paper. Maybe it was his imagination, but Ed thought Breda’s eyes were red too.
“Try a few months,” Havoc said.
“I believe it would be more apt to say a year or two, Lieutenant Breda.”
“Was that an attempt at humor, Falman?” said Havoc, and he almost sounded like himself.
“Just an observation.”
“What’s going on?” Al asked. “Why is now not the right time to meet with Colonel Mustang? He requested us upon arrival.”
“Trust us when we say it ain’t a good time, kid.” Havoc interrupted.
There was a single desk close to the colonel’s inner office door. Normally, that desk would be home to neatly placed pens and quills, a fat stack of read papers to the right and a slimmer stack in the middle, a woman working her way through the day’s inquiries. That desk would be a quiet island amidst the bustle of all the other islands, full of warm smiles and kind small talk. Genuine care. There was no one at the desk now, not even a name plate. And what had happened kicked Ed so hard in the gut that he almost crashed to his knees, bent double by the sudden influx of anger and grief.
Sorry Al, he thought, and went into the colonel’s office. He did not have red eyes or a puffy face. He was staring straight ahead, eyes clean and clear, sharp like daggers. His mouth was a firm line that bordered on a frown, and Ed knew that the second he opened his mouth would be the second he’d get court martialed for punching out his superior’s teeth out.
“What did you do?” Ed said. His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides. He was roiling with anger, it coursed off of him in liquid hot waves.
“What I do is none of your business, Fullmetal.” Whatever it was, the colonel did not want to talk about it. His tone was laced with malice, threatening and tight, like a whip. That might deter the officers outside, but Ed, like Hawkeye, was immune.
“Bullshit,” Ed spat. “I saw Lieutenant Hawkeye outside. I saw her coming from HQ. She said she was a reporter. What the fuck is that, Mustang? It was like talking to a stranger.”
Here, the colonel faltered. Just enough that Ed could notice the chip in his armor before he mended it. “You weren’t supposed to cross paths. Not yet, not for a while.”
“What are you talking about? And don’t lie to me.”
The door to the inner office had long since shut behind him. He didn’t feel eyes on him nor did he hear the rustling of other bodies in the room. He knew he and the colonel were alone.
Roy Mustang scrubbed a hand over his face and took in a shuddering breath. The curtains were drawn behind him, so the only light in the office was whatever managed to slip past his edges.
The colonel opened his mouth and closed it again, like a fish. Ed couldn’t tell if he was filter feeding or attempting to speak. Ed’s own chest tightened as he watched Colonel Mustang struggle for words. He couldn’t fathom what might come out of the good colonel’s mouth. Something blasphemous, no doubt, something disgustingly twisted and ugly, like a plague.
When he spoke, Colonel Mustang’s voice rasped from behind his teeth. He spoke like he hadn’t in days, like he’d forgotten how until just this moment. “I erased her memory.”
Ed’s world exploded red. “It didn’t work,” he snarled, immediate, icy. “It didn’t work, you bastard.” And the image of Riza Hawkeye’s tears hitting the pavement burst through his mind, one drop at a time. “Fuck, it didn’t work.”
V.IIII
Roy sat at the farthest table from her. He wanted it to be natural, he wanted to give her choice. Though he recognized the irony, he couldn’t put away with the fact that in any other universe, in any other reality, she would be granted at least this much.
Sunlight blanketed the darkened hardwood and pulled red from its roots. It shined there below her feet, red brown like the color of her eyes, soft as a satin nightdress. He had promised himself he would wait a year, at least, before he approached her. But as the months dragged on he began to talk himself into having coffee at Harlow on Thursday mornings when she was there, her back to the sunlit windows, scribbling something in a notebook. He watched her work from across the room, the way her hand moved in long, feathery strokes over the page. What was she writing? Fullmetal had told him he was a villain. A villain, like in the comics.
“You stole away her autonomy.” He’d said. His eyes were alight like fire and Roy had almost pitied him. He’d almost missed that same feeling in himself, too – it was like watching himself in Ed’s eyes, that righteous fury almost too intense to overcome. Ed’s fists were like white stones at his sides, poised but knowing better, and Roy knew the boy was right. “You stole her.”
On his sixth Thursday watching Riza Hawkeye write at Harlow, Roy ordered her tea. He had the waitress tell her it was from the gentleman in the corner and Roy made sure he wasn’t looking up when the exchange took place. He wouldn’t need to. Knowing her – and he did, he knew her – Riza would come to him, tea in hand, that stout little notebook tucked under her arm.
“How did you know I drink tea?”
Roy glanced up from where he was studying the ringlet stains on his table. “You never order coffee.”
“How would you know that?” She placed the tea on the table and joined him in the adjacent chair. Her thigh almost touched his as she settled beside him. Her perfume sucked all the other smells from the air, coffee grounds, cologne, burning stoves. She had cut her hair.
“I come here weekly. I notice a lot of things.” Roy gestured to an older woman two tables away. “She takes her coffee with two pumps of syrup and a single shot of espresso.” He threw his thumb to the side. “He likes it black.” And then pointed over Riza’s shoulder to a woman waiting by the counter, checking her watch. “She’s always running late. She gets a cappuccino with non-fat milk.”
“And do you buy drinks for them?” Riza asked. Her tone betrayed a smile.
“No,” he admitted. “You would be the first.”
She watched him as she lifted the cup of tea to her lips. “I’m going to try this.”
“Okay.”
“And if it isn’t good, I’m going to request you buy me another.”
“Another of the same?”
“Of course not.” She laughed and took a drink. “Oh,” she said. “It’s exactly how I like it.”
Roy tried not to feel too prideful. He said, “Lucky guess.”
Riza eyed him. She put the tea down and crossed her legs, her ankle brushed his calf and sent fireworks through him. “What’s your name?”
Something Ed had said to him came biting at him now. It didn’t work. She cried, it didn’t work. It always worked. That had never been Roy’s concern. He said, “Roy Mustang.”
And then the strangest thing happened.