Roy liked to read. implied Roy/Ed. Kinda.
In Roy's library, he had shelf after shelf of worn leather books. They were all different colors, shades of red and green mostly, scattered about like autumn trees, pages rustling like fallen leaves. Some were more worn than others, battle-hardened like the soldiers whose stories they told. A corner bent, a scorch mark here or there, a page torn by a careless hand.
Roy found he liked those books best.
Some of them were his father's, some his grandfather's. They gave advice, warnings, all the things a good soldier needs- especially one trying to move up in the world. Knights from the North, warriors from the East, heroes of the people. All of them filled with glory and a purpose. When he was younger, Roy would think of how grand it would be to live their lives. Dreamed of when he would face down the enemy, straight backed and brave. When he would stand behind a man greater than he, a man that would fill him with respect and awe.
Normally in his dreams, the hero was a striking figure. He was reserved. He was noble.
Normally, they were also rather tall.
What he had was a tiny blonde made of steel and flesh and scars, with strong shoulders and guilt etched into every line of his body. He had a boy that called him a bastard and old and perverted. A boy spun like gold that covers himself in black and red, with a fire in his eyes that can never quite dispel the shadows. A boy that breaks every law and every courtesy, inviting chaos along for the ride. Rude, venom-spitting, ambitious, and head-strong.
All for the sake of his brother.
Gold eyes stared up at him and god, but Ed was beautiful when he smiled. It made Roy want to keep him locked away tight, from everything and everyone that would try to break him. Keep him curled to his side so that steel wouldn't seem so cold anymore. Fix every mistake ever made so he- /they/- could be happy and see that smile every day.
But he knew Ed would never let him. Ed would keep walking forward, stalk into the fire so no one else would get burned. It's what made him a-
"What the hell are you looking at, bastard Colonel?"
Roy automatically smirked. "A hero. A short hero."
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MICROSCOPIC FLEA?!" came the automatic response. Then the younger alchemist snorted. "And besides, I'm not a hero. You should know that."
And Roy hoped the prodigy was right because Roy had read a lot about heroes over the years, studied their tales in his worn leather books.
Their lives made the best tragedies.