First time writing in the FMA fandom, let alone Royai. I was highly terrified, please be gentle with me.
He doesn't exactly know when he's given her a key, but she comes in every morning just before he showers. He gets a prickly sensation at his nape because everything is absolutely black and he can't even see her through the darkness. It's been months and he doesn't know when exactly he'll become accustomed to being unable to see.
Mustang quiets down the demons that manifested in his mind from way back in Ishval, devouring his brain slowly even up to this day. He doesn't want to think about the irony of how he's seen it all and now can't see a single thing.
"I'm going," he says, slowly making his way to the showers, his hands touching the walls as he goes.
He listens as she makes herself at home in his kitchen, listens to the pots and pans jingle, listens because that's all he can do now.
He sits on his armchair and waits because there is no use for a blind Colonel in the office. He clenches his jaw at the thought of what a nuisance he's become and he wishes Maes were around to drop in every ten minutes and laugh at his predicament and take out a picture of Elicia and gush about her, forgetting that Mustang can't see her anymore.
But that's not how things are anymore; Maes Hughes is dead and Roy Mustang is blind.
He shifts in his seat, his grip clenching around the armchair's wooden arm. But there's no point in being angry, he tries to tell himself; anger won't bring his sight back and he's already tried to bring his best friend back with rage. That didn't work, either.
The door opens and he stiffens.
"It's me," she says and she grabs his wrist and places his hand on her cheek.
It's as soft as he remembers it; smooth and soft with no traces of makeup to make it powdery or caked. Her jawline is just as soft, clenched under his touch and Mustang almost smiles.
"Thank you," he says and he lets her drop his hand back to his side. "Tell me, Lieutenant, how is Jean Havoc?"
"Much better, sir," she replies and he can hear her voice growing distant. "Chamomile?"
"Ah, yes," he says, rubbing his fingers together and trying to engrave the softness of her skin into the pad—the pores—of his fingers.
She's in the kitchen, again, and Mustang sits at the edge of his bed and wonders if the scent of food clings to her clothes. Riza has always smelt like gunpowder and something metallic like blood; it's a scent he likes on no one else but her and the thought of her carrying a scent of anything else is… Ridiculous, to say the very least.
He stands from the bed and slowly makes his way around his house, his hands touching the walls, holding the railings and grabbing at corners.
Mustang listens to her walk closer to him and he sighs at the worry in her tone as she asks, "Sir?"
He places a hand on each of her shoulder and brings her close. He closes his eyes and dips down, burrowing his face in the crook of her neck and almost smiling as he breathes in gunpowder and that distinct metallic tang.
"Colonel, is everything alright?"
He slowly pulls away, his hands sliding off her shoulders and dropping to his sides.
"Yes," he says, nodding. "Yes."
"Dr. Marcoh is ready when you are, sir."
Mustang swallows and gives a slow nod. He doesn't think he can even remember how long he's been engulfed in darkness and he won't lie to himself that he's grown comfortable in it. He hates it more than anything and he wants nothing more than to be brought back to the light.
He rubs his fingers together, as has become a new habit of his.
"Lieutenant, I should thank you," he says, crossing a leg over the other as he sits on his armchair. "You have done so much—"
"Colonel, please." She steps closer and pats his arm. "I only do what I have to."
"You don't have to come and nanny me, Lieutenant."
He listens to her sigh and Mustang can already picture the look of exasperation that Riza does just seconds before hiding it under her mask of indifference. "Sir, I do it with much pleasure."
He hums, softly, taking her hand off his shoulder and holding it in his. Touching her is the only way he can substitute the lack of ability to see her; touching her, smelling her, hearing her—everything but seeing her and it still leaves this bothersome feeling in his system to be unable to see anything and he almost wishes Dr. Marcoh was there now to get it over with—get his sight back and feel as if he can do something on his own, again.
"Nonetheless," he says, voice soft as he is lost in his train of thoughts. "Thank you."
"Of course," she says and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.
She makes to leave, her hand slowly sliding away from his grip. He tightens his hand around hers and Mustang stands abruptly, done with sitting down and sulking in his misfortune.
He takes two steps forwards, towards where he hears her voice and leans in towards her, placing his lips on her cheek and slowly dragging them down, making sure not an inch of their body touches as he slowly memorizes the trail he leaves until his lips press against hers. The action is clumsy and shaky and Mustang pulls away before she can register the action, before she places a hand on his chest, before she takes a shaky breath and before Mustang loses himself in an entirely different sense.
Mustang sits on his desk, the chair facing the window and observing the streets below. He sucks in air as quietly as possible as he, once again, is caught at the notion that he is observing—seeing. The sky, the clouds, the buildings, the cars, the people; his chest pieces, his papers… Everything.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, swiveling the chair around and grabbing the telephone. He opens one of the drawers of his desk, taking a card and making the call.
The men in his office give a deep sigh and Mustang leans back in his seat and laughs.
"Still the same old man, I see."
"Elizabeth, please," he coos, his eyes still closed and picturing the woman on the other line; her blond hair, her brown eyes, the look of exasperation on her face. He laughs, "You know it's only for you!"