Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Spoilers: through 51
Summary: Roy hasn't learned from other people's mistakes
Previous Parts: Prologue | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV
Notes: Yeah, I forgot to mention that I gratuitously stole the last few quotes from Marcus Aurelius and Emily Dickenson. With slight modifications. *hidez* Anyway, the next update should be happening soonish. Hopefully.
Roy doesn't know why he's here at the crime scene, long after the investigators and other military personnel have gone. He had walked the entire way, unwilling to ask Havoc to drive him. He doesn't know why he did that, either. He moves past the tape, the little evidence that was left behind. It doesn't look that much different than it did before.
Something drew him here, maybe. He's not religious or spiritual enough to call it fate.
A breeze picks up, and he freezes. It was still tonight, clear and cloudless. Something's wrong. He can feel it.
He blinks, and Maes stands there, grinning.
And no, that can't be right. He's losing it, he's hallucinating. His mind is making things up that aren't there. Grief can make you go insane, he heard somewhere; it can warp your mind. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that, when he opens them again, Maes won't be there.
Because he wants it to be true, but he knows it's impossible.
He opens his eyes slowly, and finds himself looking into dark eyes. They're his eyes, only not, and Roy can only stare at them, because this is what he wanted, and now he has it, and it's so much worse than he could have ever imagined it.
Maes (Is it Maes at all? Can he call it Maes?) stands with his face only a few inches away from Roy's, and that grin still hasn't disappeared. If not for the circumstances, Roy probably would have felt comforted by it, the familiarity or that smile. Maes' hand reaches up to touch the eyepatch covering Roy's left eye. Roy doesn't try to stop him.
It's almost tender, the way Maes runs his fingers over the rough surface, over Roy's face. He leans in for a kiss, and Roy lets him, because it's as natural as breathing, and this is what he wanted, isn't it?
Their lips meet, touch, and it's different. Too different, and Roy can't. He just can't. But then there's a tongue in his mouth, and it's just similar enough. Roy kisses back fiercely, trying to remember this moment, memorize it.
He may never get the chance again.
Maes pulls away, and it strikes Roy as strange that he still hasn't spoken. Not a word. It can't be him, because Roy would have hallucinated him speaking (if Roy was hallucinating this. He's still not sure.). If it really was Maes here, right now, he would be speaking. He never believed in silence. Said it was a waste of time. His voice was the part of Maes Hughes Roy remembers best. The part he misses the most.
Roy tries to pull himself together. Think, he tells himself. Think.
Finally, Maes speaks. "Do you like my handiwork?" He gestures to the wall, still splattered with blood, and the nonsensical phrases.
What is he talking about? Handiwork?The realization hits quickly, leaving Roy is a state of shock. No. Maes was never a killer. He didn't go to Ishbal. He stayed home and took a desk job. He liked his knives (to disarm, to disable, not to see a lifeless body at his feet).
"Who are you?" Roy asks, his voice a whisper. He stands his ground, his back straight, hand in glove, already sensing the air for oxygen. He needs to be prepared to watch Maes die again. But the tension is blocking his throat, preventing the words from being strong and clear.
Not-Maes leans in closer, but not touching, causing Roy to tense even further.
"You can call me Wrath," Not-Maes breathes into his ear. In a flash, he's gone (he moves fast, faster than anything else Roy's ever seen, as instantaneous as light, and Roy really hopes this is still a hallucination, because no one can move as fast as light, no one), leaving Roy alone with his thoughts.
He stands there for a long time, collecting himself.
The two men were talking again, this time sitting on soft brown chairs. Neither of them had food or drink, because neither of them needed it.
The one with the glasses smiled slowly. The one with the sword spoke, studying the other man carefully, trying to gauge his emotions. "So, how did the meeting go?"
The man with the glasses shrugged. " Pretty well. Considering."
It was the man with the sword's turn to smile. "Good."