Categories > Anime/Manga > Full Metal Alchemist > Separate
Roy Mustang is never more alone than when he stands in the training yard and practices his alchemy. When anyone else there sees him emerge and tug on his gloves, they invariably hurry back inside. Sometimes they peer out from the windows, watching him with the sort of fascination normally reserved for deadly storms and beautifully dangerous animals. He is separate from them, inhuman and invincible.
He does not mind. The solitude takes away all the reminders of his humanity that might otherwise distract him from his work. Instead he sees only the composition of the air around him. He feels the satisfaction that comes of purifying it into knots of concentrated oxygen. He hears the crackle of chemical reactions igniting like a passionate kiss. The heat tearing through the air warms him.
Only one thing can bring him down then, and he is grateful it happens so rarely. Sometimes, when the spark leaps from his fingers and soars out into flames, he can see red-brown eyes behind the fire, watching him, bringing him back down to his humanity. They are gone when he looks up again, but that moment is enough.
---
Even in the carefully structured environment of the shooting range, gunshots are dizzyingly loud to anyone not used to their sound. Newcomers stepping into the range sometimes flinch at the sharp noise.
Riza Hawkeye is no newcomer, and she has long since accustomed herself to the noise. Earplugs are a bonus; she is sure that even without them, she'd be fine. She wears them anyway, because she is not the sort of woman who takes unnecessary risks. Only necessary ones.
There is nowhere else in the world she feels so right. She touches her center here, knows it, understands everything about herself and the world around her. The gunshots are punctuation, making sense of the grammar of the world.
Sometimes, though, she almost hears a whisper in her ears. "Lieutenant--" Almost. Even though she knows it isn't real, knows she's just imagining things, she always stumbles and turns around, and for a moment the world is strange and inexplicable again, and at the center of it all, he is there.
Then she takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and turns back to her shooting.
He does not mind. The solitude takes away all the reminders of his humanity that might otherwise distract him from his work. Instead he sees only the composition of the air around him. He feels the satisfaction that comes of purifying it into knots of concentrated oxygen. He hears the crackle of chemical reactions igniting like a passionate kiss. The heat tearing through the air warms him.
Only one thing can bring him down then, and he is grateful it happens so rarely. Sometimes, when the spark leaps from his fingers and soars out into flames, he can see red-brown eyes behind the fire, watching him, bringing him back down to his humanity. They are gone when he looks up again, but that moment is enough.
---
Even in the carefully structured environment of the shooting range, gunshots are dizzyingly loud to anyone not used to their sound. Newcomers stepping into the range sometimes flinch at the sharp noise.
Riza Hawkeye is no newcomer, and she has long since accustomed herself to the noise. Earplugs are a bonus; she is sure that even without them, she'd be fine. She wears them anyway, because she is not the sort of woman who takes unnecessary risks. Only necessary ones.
There is nowhere else in the world she feels so right. She touches her center here, knows it, understands everything about herself and the world around her. The gunshots are punctuation, making sense of the grammar of the world.
Sometimes, though, she almost hears a whisper in her ears. "Lieutenant--" Almost. Even though she knows it isn't real, knows she's just imagining things, she always stumbles and turns around, and for a moment the world is strange and inexplicable again, and at the center of it all, he is there.
Then she takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and turns back to her shooting.
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