Fic: This Meadow Where We Find Ourselves
Title: This Meadow Where We Find Ourselves
Word Count: 541
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Roy/Riza, mentions of Maes
Summary: This is their last day in East.
A/N: This fic is a lot of jumbled thoughts that I'm not sure came out right. I was thinking a lot about how things were much more innocent back in East before the homunculi made everything much more complicated for Roy and friends. About new beginnings and overcoming the horror that was Ishbal. I don't know if any of that comes across, but I still hope you enjoy this fic for what it truly is, deep down: 541 words of PWP. (Also, incase you enjoy this, my other fics can be found here.)
She twiddles the pen idly in her hand. It's not so much of a conscious action as it is a nervous habit, something she does when she thinks. Roy has his quirks too, like tapping the desk when he's annoyed, or playing with the hem of his jacket when he is unsure of the things he is trying to say, but desperately needs to say them. (Hawkeye plays with the ends of her hair when he does this and it drives him crazy sometimes, because her hair used to be short and now it is long and he can't touch it any more now than he could back then.)
This is their last day in East and the flowers are beginning to bloom. Spring in Central is different, he's heard; everything is noisier, much more chaotic and metallic than the calming greens and pastels that litter his field of vision at present. East is quieter and they have grown up here, in a way, at least he has, grown from the disillusioned young veteran into the capable leader with visions of the future. He is different, better, and now he notices all the things he didn't in the past, like the hem of his jacket and how Riza Hawkeye smells of lilacs when she’s reaching across his desk.
He could give it up, he thinks, this life of subterfuge for something quiet in the country. A life of mundane occurrence and concerns. A farm, perhaps, with sheep and a clothesline where she'd hang his shirts. He could spend the rest of his days painting murals on all the unfinished skies of their future, but there are promises to be kept and treason to plan. Maes has been calling every hour wondering when he is to arrive, if that pretty Lieutenant of his is coming with.
(Maes is obsessed with that pretty Lieutenant and he always calls her Riza even though Roy only calls her Hawkeye. He thinks there is something meaningful in that and if Roy would only call her by her name then maybe he would see, but what Maes doesn't know is that Roy has seen and he has known and for over a decade he has been watching Riza Hawkeye twiddle her pen and so much more.)
He thinks that maybe he will walk her home tonight, this last night in East. Maybe he will play with the hem of his jacket and then with the hem of hers; they'll speak of the birds as if this spring is something new and exciting and not thousands of years in the making, something mandated by Heaven and Earth and how he looks at her now the same way he did at 12. He wants to press apologies into the softness of her lips for all the wasted years, but spring is only newly upon them and there is too much to do before the transfer.
(He sleeps on the train and dreams that when he touches her rifle it collapses into a million tiny marbles that litter the floor and find their way into his pockets, his shoes, everything. The world is painted in gold and he scarcely remembers the winter.)
Word Count: 541
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Roy/Riza, mentions of Maes
Summary: This is their last day in East.
A/N: This fic is a lot of jumbled thoughts that I'm not sure came out right. I was thinking a lot about how things were much more innocent back in East before the homunculi made everything much more complicated for Roy and friends. About new beginnings and overcoming the horror that was Ishbal. I don't know if any of that comes across, but I still hope you enjoy this fic for what it truly is, deep down: 541 words of PWP. (Also, incase you enjoy this, my other fics can be found here.)
She twiddles the pen idly in her hand. It's not so much of a conscious action as it is a nervous habit, something she does when she thinks. Roy has his quirks too, like tapping the desk when he's annoyed, or playing with the hem of his jacket when he is unsure of the things he is trying to say, but desperately needs to say them. (Hawkeye plays with the ends of her hair when he does this and it drives him crazy sometimes, because her hair used to be short and now it is long and he can't touch it any more now than he could back then.)
This is their last day in East and the flowers are beginning to bloom. Spring in Central is different, he's heard; everything is noisier, much more chaotic and metallic than the calming greens and pastels that litter his field of vision at present. East is quieter and they have grown up here, in a way, at least he has, grown from the disillusioned young veteran into the capable leader with visions of the future. He is different, better, and now he notices all the things he didn't in the past, like the hem of his jacket and how Riza Hawkeye smells of lilacs when she’s reaching across his desk.
He could give it up, he thinks, this life of subterfuge for something quiet in the country. A life of mundane occurrence and concerns. A farm, perhaps, with sheep and a clothesline where she'd hang his shirts. He could spend the rest of his days painting murals on all the unfinished skies of their future, but there are promises to be kept and treason to plan. Maes has been calling every hour wondering when he is to arrive, if that pretty Lieutenant of his is coming with.
(Maes is obsessed with that pretty Lieutenant and he always calls her Riza even though Roy only calls her Hawkeye. He thinks there is something meaningful in that and if Roy would only call her by her name then maybe he would see, but what Maes doesn't know is that Roy has seen and he has known and for over a decade he has been watching Riza Hawkeye twiddle her pen and so much more.)
He thinks that maybe he will walk her home tonight, this last night in East. Maybe he will play with the hem of his jacket and then with the hem of hers; they'll speak of the birds as if this spring is something new and exciting and not thousands of years in the making, something mandated by Heaven and Earth and how he looks at her now the same way he did at 12. He wants to press apologies into the softness of her lips for all the wasted years, but spring is only newly upon them and there is too much to do before the transfer.
(He sleeps on the train and dreams that when he touches her rifle it collapses into a million tiny marbles that litter the floor and find their way into his pockets, his shoes, everything. The world is painted in gold and he scarcely remembers the winter.)