EvilHippo of the Clan MacHippo (evilhippo) wrote in fm_alchemist,
EvilHippo of the Clan MacHippo

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[Ficlet... thing] These Eyes

Inspired by a slight re-spawning of the Roy's eye-colour debate, I found myself writing instead of reading the rest of Hobbes like I was supposed to (it's okay, Hobbes deserves my disrespect on some level, I'm sure). So, mostly because it was 1:00 and I tend to have stupid ideas when it's around 1:00, I ended up writing this 700-word ficlet... thing. It's from Riza's point-of-view, which is totally odd from me but, ah well. I'm sort of proud of it, so I'm sharing it here.

Title: These Eyes
Summary: Riza muses on the true colour of Roy Mustang's eyes
Spoilers/Warnings: Yes. Because I am clinically incapable of writing anything that doesn't contain a spoiler for Episode 25. It gets a little purple-prosey, too. And I'm not intending to take a side, nor do I wish to stir up the debate again... just... you know... writing stuff.
Characters: Riza/Royish, if you want to see it that way.
Words: Seven 100-word paragraphs (provided Word's word count wasn't being stupid again), because I am a nerd.

Eyes, some say they are a window into the soul. The best way to tell what a person is really like: their thoughts, emotions, inner turmoil, conflicts, the things that make them tick, make them the people they really are. An opening into their inner being. This was probably the reason, she mused, that Roy’s eyes were such a mystery. There were so many sides to his character that even those closest to him could still be caught up in an argument as to what colour his eyes truly were (as Breda and Havoc, across the room, were currently doing).

The only thing they could ever seem to agree on was the fact that they were ‘dark.’ Occasionally the argument would end there, both agreeing that the other was wrong, leaving it at that. Other times, however it would continue until the Colonel himself cleared his throat and glared in their direction until they returned their attention to their paperwork. It was at those times, regarding his staff’s mirthful disregard for his authority, in fact his very presence in the room, that Mustang’s eyes were closest to a penetrable hue. A sort of amused annoyance glinted in his dark eyes.

Roy Mustang’s eyes were rarely just ‘dark,’ though. It was all relative, of course, to a person’s own experiences with the man. Every person saw a different repertoire of tints. Black, it seemed, was the neutral colour. It was composed and competent, ever-ready and reliable. It was the only colour that his superior officers ever knew, and a colour few of his girlfriends saw beyond, either. Black was a mask, blotting out the quirks and passions and above all hiding his haunting past. Those that didn’t know Roy Mustang would surely insist his eyes were only a deep charcoal black.

Below the surface though, other colours would shine through. There was a deep blue, a sign of cheerfulness usually reserved for Maes Hughes. It seemed to surface whenever the man was nearby to share a story or picture, despite his annoyed facade. A reflection of the colour of his uniform, perhaps, though it was rarely seen anymore. A deep grey had been their colour on the day of the funeral, borrowed from the rain clouds that hung invisibly in the air above the procession until the colour was bled before the squat stone in front of him, an insufficient tribute.

Rarely, though she was sure she had seen it, there would be a hint of forest green envy in his eyes. Odd though it was, the only excuse for that could have been the potted plants. But there it was, once in a blue moon, when he saw others move up the ladder faster, less hindered by their pasts. Or, jealousy of those that were able to sleep soundly at night, without the haunting nightmares of a far-off war and the pressure of orders that came down to kill or be killed in the middle of a hostile burning desert.

Jealousy always seemed to pass quickly, though. More often than not, it faded to a deep red. Red was not a colour that anyone would ever attribute to his eyes if they didn’t know him well - if they hadn’t worked beneath him for years, but it was there. It was the colour of pure determination and will, the colour of the fire that seemed to make up his very being. At the moments when it shone through, there was no denying why he was attracted to his element. Fire was what his soul was made of; it kept him moving.

Riza had no doubt that there were other colours as well; ones that she would never get to see herself. Ones reserved for the family he would one day have, or ones that only his books had ever seen. It was why, of all the arguments she’d ever been tempted to join in on in this office, she kept herself from this one. She knew here was no right answer to the mystery of the colour of Roy Mustang’s eyes, because there was no answer to the mystery of the man himself. She preferred to leave it at that.

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