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Riza sank onto the steps outside the community hall, arranging her skirt around her knees, and hated herself.
She had no right to want so much.
Usually her desires remained out of sight, misplaced in the monotony of her daily routines or shoved behind piles of guilt. But today, something had ransacked her heart and laid bare the longings she kept hidden even from herself.
It wasn’t something, really, but somethings—countless precious, painful moments one after another after another.
Winry’s laugh.
The general’s tender smile.
Al rambling about his favorite Xingese dishes.
The mayor dancing with his tiny daughter tottering on his toes.
When Jean had tried to rally everyone for a Giribaz Jig, Riza had slipped away into the evening air, leaving the carefree cacophony behind her. She couldn’t dream with the living when her mind was full of the dead.
She had no right.
How could she want so much when she had taken so much more?
She didn’t look away as faces, framed by white hair and crosshairs, examined her soul and found it wanting. But one face had brown eyes instead of red, and blond hair instead of white. A young girl. Scared and stubborn, but kind. That girl had imagined a world where everyone felt safe and loved. She had longed for warmth. Freedom. A family of her own, maybe, people to cherish and protect.
She had died by Riza’s first bullet.
“Is this seat taken?”
Riza stifled a curse, wondering how she could claim to be anyone’s bodyguard in her state. “No, you’re welcome to join me. Not a fan of the Giribaz Jig?”
With a snort, Mrs. Curtis plopped onto the step next to Riza. “More like the Giribaz Flail, the way Ed does it.”
Riza winced on the boy’s behalf, then her own—getting stepped on by an automail foot was no joke, as her toes could now attest. “You’d think his martial arts skills would translate better to the dance floor. He’s so graceful and coordinated when he fights…”
“Ha! Maybe he should have danced with the bad guys instead—he’s injured an impressive number of people tonight!”
“Yes, unfortunately, I’m one of the casualties.”
“But that’s not why you’re out here, is it?” Though Mrs. Curtis’s tone was still light, her eyes rested heavily on Riza’s. She had a feeling those eyes would pierce right through any pretense she tried to take refuge behind.
(And she remembered that Mrs. Curtis had once been desperate enough to open a portal.)
“Weddings remind me of…dreams I used to have. Things I used to want. Still want. But that was before the war and everything we did.”
Her finger mindlessly traced shapes where it rested on her skirt—the curve of a bloodless cheek, an eye blown wide with fear. “I didn’t want to bring down the mood with my sour thoughts, so I just…”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry; it’s silly and selfish.”
“It’s really not.”
The other woman spoke with such casual conviction that Riza almost believed her.
“It’s OK to hurt,” Mrs. Curtis continued. “That’s what I told the boys when they finally came to see me after…what they tried to do for their mother.
“The truth is, Major, sometimes the consequences of our actions really suck.”
Together they chuckled, a grim camaraderie. Then Mrs. Curtis fixed her with a look that was equal parts warm and stern. “And denying your feelings about it doesn’t help anybody.”
“I suppose not.” Riza lifted her gaze to the stars. She remembered a schoolteacher saying once that looking at the night sky was like looking into the past. Back then, she had found the idea entrancing, though almost too big for her.
Now it seemed cruel.
“Most of the time, it’s not even about the things I can’t have,” she admitted. “It’s…wishing so badly that I had been good enough to deserve them.”
Her voice had become a tattered thing; with a slow breath, she patched it up as best she could.
“But I lost the right a long time ago to wish for better or different. I’m grateful to have any kind of life at all, when so many don’t because of me. I have far more than I deserve.”
Next to her, Mrs. Curtis also had her face tilted toward the sky. She didn’t say anything for a while, but Riza felt no reproach in her silence.
They both startled as a familiar, indignant squawk rose above the muffled sounds of merriment in the hall. Riza considered the odds that her commanding officer had incited the outburst. She wouldn’t bet against it.
When she shared a smile with Mrs. Curtis, the other woman’s expression was wistful.
“I think we can be grateful for what we have,” she said softly, “and still mourn the things we wish we deserved.”
Riza closed her eyes as they burned, fingers scrabbling at her skirt. A hand gently covered her own, just as careworn, but not as calloused, not as cold.
“He’s told me a lot about you—he and Al both. For what it’s worth, it seems like you got there eventually. You’ve become the kind of person who deserves the things you wanted, even if they’re no longer yours to have.” Her hand tightened around Riza’s. “And that’s important too.”
“Thank you,” Riza rasped. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
“I won’t tell you to go chasing your dreams anyway. I’m not sure that’s my place.” She released Riza’s hand and stood up, hands on her hips.
“But I will tell you to stop feeling guilty about feeling.”
As Mrs. Curtis loomed over her, teeth bared in a gleaming grin, Riza felt a sudden kinship with Ed and Al. “All right…I’ll try.”
There were more words pressing against her lips, but she hesitated, worried she might be overstepping. The words spilled out anyway. “I know a little of what happened to you, Mrs. Curtis. And I don’t think you’re like me. You deserved…more. I’m very sorry.”
Behind them, Ed hollered again, and this time Al’s voice followed, long-suffering.
“You know, in a way, I did get a taste of what I dreamed of,” Mrs. Curtis said. “It’s not the same. But I am grateful.”
“I’m glad the boys found you.”
“Likewise—or rather, that you found them.” At Riza’s raised eyebrow, Mrs. Curtis cackled. “You’re right—I trust soldiers only as far as I can throw them. Well, no, not nearly that far. But you and that fellow watched out for Ed and Al. If anybody else had found them that day, things could have been a lot dicier.”
“That’s true,” Riza murmured. “I’m glad we were able to help, though I think the boys and Winry have helped me more, in a lot of ways.”
“I know the feeling,” Mrs. Curtis winked. “Wish me luck! I’m re-entering the danger zone. Let’s hope I get through the night with my toes intact.”
It was doubtful, given the woman’s choice of footwear. Riza waved. “I’ll join you all soon.”
The din spilled out for a few seconds as Mrs. Curtis opened the door to the hall, then quiet reigned again on the porch.
This time, Riza felt the other person’s presence before they spoke.
“Doing some stargazing, Major?”
“Avoiding further injury, General. The Giribaz Jig sounded particularly hazardous.”
“You should have warned me,” he grumbled. “I took another kick to the shin.”
“Was that an accident, sir, or just deserts?”
“You wound me, Hawkeye—haven’t I received enough bruises today?”
Groaning, the general collapsed onto the steps. He was fashionably disheveled, jacket and tie abandoned, sleeves rolled up, strands of hair defecting from his slicked-back coif. Though his face was shiny and flushed (no doubt he’d taken nearly every woman in Resembool for a spin on the dance floor) there was something strained in his expression.
But also—
She quirked a smile. “You have a bit of frosting on your mustache, sir.”
“Care to do something about it, Major?”
In her exhaustion, it was easy to return his smirk with a dead-eyed stare. He just grinned, the exasperating man, but his eyes narrowed as they caught hers. He took inventory of her face, her hands, her posture, in a way that might have made anyone else squirm. But there was little left of her that hadn’t been exposed to Roy Mustang.
Finally releasing her from his examination, he plucked a handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed at his upper lip. “Did you and Mrs. Curtis have a nice chat?”
“She’s a kind woman, sir. Funny, too.”
“A good person to have by your side.” He was remembering the Promised Day, she was sure. “The Elrics are fortunate to know her.”
“That’s what I told her, sir.”
Handkerchief tucked away, the general settled his arms on his knees, his silence not a command but an invitation.
Haltingly, she accepted it.
“We talked about...wishes. For the future, and the past.”
Her breath flickered. "On days like today, I…I just…”
“I know.”
Without meeting her eyes, he placed his hand, soft and scarred, upon hers.
A comfort, and a wish.
For a few minutes they simply breathed, unmoving, as starlight winked at them through years they had already lived.
“It’s funny, Major. I’ve always loved weddings.” Roy sighed gustily, fluttering the liberated strands of his hair. “But God, I hate them too.”
As she laughed, the ache in her chest intensified, but so did the warmth.
“I know exactly what you mean, sir.”
He squeezed her hand.