Chapter Text
bite the bullet
- idiom
- to endure, accept, or confront a difficult situation with courage, fortitude, and stoicism
chapter one: wonder
C lear blue water
High tide came and brought you in
And I could go on and on, on and on
If there’s anything she hates to admit, then it will only be one thing: she can’t take her eyes off of him. Not in the way that most people think, no.
Ever since the moment he set his foot on her father’s mansion, she has set her mind on keeping her eyes peeled for every imaginable, horrible, unforgivable misconduct that Roy Mustang can possibly commit— any behavior reprehensible enough to convince father that he’s no better than she is, that they don’t need a stranger and his futile ministrations in helping them get by in life.
Still, Riza finds herself enthralled with how he meticulously tries to draw a circle in a single stroke, tenacious in the way he holds his attention when reading countless books exposing a language different than their own. Father may have reprimanded him for failing to add enough pressure in drawing his perfect little circles and for repeating the question before giving his perfect little answers, but he’s still there, lounging casually in her father’s study and leaving breadcrumbs on her father’s floor (which she’d always sweep and wax and clean, only god knows what father will do to her if she didn’t).
But there’s something about the way he regards her in a manner that’s different from father, always meeting her gaze with nothing but that goofy smile on his face, pestering her with questions no one has ever bothered to ask her (‘Is that hard? May I help you? How did you learn how to hunt? Where else do you want to go? Why don’t you like alchemy? What do you want to become when you grow up?’). She would have believed he’s only chatting with her because he doesn’t have anything better to do, until father begins scolding him for sleeping on his assignment, lagging behind readings, and - in his words - philandering with his only daughter.
It wasn’t long before she considered it a win-win situation.
Riza pays him more mind in the following months, carefully attending to how he picks up his pace whenever she walks a little faster, to how he shares everything he’s learned and stops mid-sentence just to ask if she can follow (‘Yes, of course, I understand’ even though she doesn’t, and he’d explain it to her until she does), to how his eyes are affixed on someplace she can’t see whenever he tells her what he plans to do after mastering alchemy (‘To keep your cooking warm for as long as you’d like’). But the more she watches him, the more she hears the echoes of diffidence pounding louder across her mind. Did father like him better for his enthusiasm? His undisturbed focus? His talent for alchemy? She’d feed these to the envy that coils around her chest, the parasite gnashing the flesh of the very bones that cage it. That is, until she notices just how warm his sweater is when he lends it to her on a rainy day, how soft his fingers are when he plucks an eyelash from her cheek, how thoughtful he is to buy a cupcake for her birthday, to dim the lights when she falls asleep while he’s studying, to speak of her name in almost every conversation as if it has always meant to come out from his perfect little mouth. It’s not until then had she realized that she bears within her the same warmth she searches for in winter, a living thing right there in that tiny space where her lungs expand and where her heart flutters, a living thing big enough to swallow envy and other nasty critters wiggling inside her. Has it always been there? How come she hadn’t noticed? But one thing’s for sure is that it doesn’t seem to show up on its own, always hiding and shying away from her consciousness unless she’s with that Roy Mustang.
Has she contracted an illness of some sort, a chest fever, a heart flu, or the same kind that gave mother a burning fire under her skin right before it stole all her warmth away?
Now she begins to proceed more cautiously, more consciously on the way that boy takes up so much space despite being one person under a house meant for dozens. But the comfort seems to exceed the consequences she thought would come. If she were indeed ill, then she experienced no weariness that gravitates her back to her slumber, the same way she would when her nose is running and her head is throbbing from being out in the rain for too long. If she were indeed ill, she wouldn’t have to get up early in the morning just to hear him say ‘I always liked your cooking’, to let him come with her to the market just to know which food draws out his widest smile, to stay awake for hours beyond her curfew just to see what it’s like when he starts sleeping (a sudden dimming of the room as if he’s the only one that brightens it).
She’d find her palms against her chest just to hear the thump thump thump in the midnight silence, thinking about how the air tastes oddly sweeter when she’s just right beside him. Is this how it feels to be paid attention to? If mother was still alive? If father favored her? If Roy hadn’t come to take all of father’s time for her— she stops. The thought remains to prickle and twist the skin behind her arms. If Roy hadn’t come to take all of father’s time for her, would there be any difference?
She hesitates to think of the answer.
But the Truth slaps her hard the moment she stops looking.
Skies grew darker
Currents swept you out again
And you were just gone and gone, gone and gone