'I know you miss him.'
Snow falls at his feet, gently resting across the fabric of his jacket, melting in his jet black hair. It's cold, but he doesn't notice the drop in temperature. His eyes are focussed on the gravestone before him; it stands proudly, but gradually whiteness begins to cloud the letters engraved, and soon the name has vanished before his eyes, and the stone becomes one with the land.
A sigh. He's content. Finally. 'I've never been fond of the dead.'
Why, she wishes to ask. Why does he fear ghosts? Why does he fear the past? The man is so full of dread he only has eyes for the future. He dare not open the gates. They remain locked, the key thrown away. Unbeknownst to him, however, she clings to the key, keeps it with her. Unbeknownst to him, she will always possess the power to unlock the gates.
Such an insignificant heart. It beats and pumps the blood, keeps her breathing. Fragile. Once the key drops from her hand, someone will be able to push through the barriers and wreak havoc. Someone will discover his weakness, realise the key has always been her.
Deep down, he knows that day doesn't have to occur. He's stronger than he likes to believe.
Roy looks at her when he hears her shivering. Having the ability to control fire, the man remains undisturbed to the chill. However his companion is very human, very alive, and the cold has started to affect her. Two arms wrap around her body and she embraces herself in an attempt to keep warm. Roy is smiling again, but wider, more happily.
Peeling away both of his gloves, he presses his hot palms against her red, cool cheeks. She flinches at first, surprised, but the warmth he offers is too much to refuse. Exhaling slowly, she allows this man to keep her warm, and he chuckles. Lightly, almost playfully.
His eyes are no longer riddled with guilt and anger. Now, all she sees is joy, peace. It's the most beautiful thing she's ever witnessed.
And while his mind is plagued by his demons, he is sane, and stable. He has a body, a soul, a mind. Every inch of him is real, is right, and she loves him. Loves him with a passion so deep not even she can come to terms with this terrible, wonderful emotion.
For the first time in years –– ever –– she is proud of him. She can stand by this man, shoulders high, and praise his mightiness. He is no hero, but a warrior. A triumphant soldier, there to protect his people, and there to express the strength this country needs.
Riza kisses his lips. They are also warm, and taste a little salty. Roy isn't expecting the affection, but he doesn't push her away. Instead he watches her intently, curious, studying her movements and eyes. 'You seem better yourself, Sir.'
He is. There isn't a more definite answer. Snow continues to fall, and his hands remain at her cheeks. She is warm now, but she doesn't want him to move away. To move away would make her cold again, and she has to have him close. As close as possible.
'All is better, my love.'
Roy's voice is a whisper, and it travels in the silent, gentle breeze.