#rw18

robert + best era I the honeymoon period

Royai Week: Day 5

Theme: Home

Rating: K+

Pairing: Royai/Roy Mustang x Riza Hawkeye

Disclaimer: I don’t own Fullmetal Alchemist.

Word Count: 1007

Description: Royai One Shot/Drabble

After a day of wedding craziness, Riza truly goes home for the first time.

A/N: I wrote this one in third person because it came to me that way. I know my fics are never not in first, but you guys are cool. Hopefully, the quality doesn’t suffer. Comments are always appreciated. Happy reading!

my rw18 tag || ffn || ao3

day 4: touch me

Riza was never one to fidget. Her years as a sniper had stamped out any urge to twist her hands or fiddle with her clothes. But sitting here, in the back of a sleek black town car, she couldn’t help but mess with the glittering jewelry that adorned her wrists and fingers. She was nervous. More nervous than she’d been since she was a little girl. This was not Riza Hawkeye.

Riza Hawkeye no longer existed. She’d given up that name along with her former life of solitude, paperwork, and her dimly lit apartment. The change had officially taken place just twelve hours ago as she stood in front of the entire population of Central City, though the ceremony was being broadcast across the whole of Amestris. She couldn’t have cared less about the crowd or the publicity. To her, it was just the two of them. Standing there, saying the things they’d kept secret for so long.

At the end, they kissed for only a moment, but the roaring of the throng that came after lasted for an eternity. The officiant promptly presented them as Fuhrer and First Lady Mustang, which received a fresh surge of cheers from the multitude. But even as the noise reached a deafening peak, Roy leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“Mrs. Mustang,” he murmured, his breath tickling the skin of her neck. 

It was then reality hit her, and she felt tears pricking her eyes. She was no longer Riza Hawkeye. She belonged to this man—body and soul, and in return he gave her his name. As of that moment, she was Riza Mustang. 

Somehow, she managed not to cry even though her chest was constricting with emotion. Instead, she was whisked off to a reception so grand it rivaled the emperor’s birthday celebration in Xing. She was much too busy smiling and chatting to let it sink in—her new role as Roy Mustang’s wife. Here, she was the Fuhrer’s wife, and had to fill the role of the glowing socialite, which she did with ease.

However, after the food had been devoured and the champagne diminished, when the party-goers and well-wishers had all departed, the Fuhrer and his bride happily, and wearily, stepped out into the cool night air and got into an awaiting town car. Hidden from any prying eyes behind the dark tinted glass, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.

Riza put a hand on his chest and kissed him back until he moved to kiss her cheek and curled his arm around her. Resting her head on his shoulder, Riza felt the weight of exhaustion settle in her bones. Today was long, and she was very ready to go home.

Home.

Home wasn’t a concept Riza was familiar with. Her childhood home wasn’t much to speak of, except for the years Roy had been apprenticing under her father. When she left there, she lived in a military barrack until the war began in Ishval.

There is no home for a soldier at war. Her tent in Ishval was used for meager hours of restless sleep when and if she could get them.

Since then, she’d been living in a small apartment in Central which had merely served a purpose—a place to eat, sleep, and be alone at the end of the day.

But none of those were a home.

As the car turned up the long drive to the Fuhrer’s mansion, Riza’s heart skipped a beat, the sight of the grand estate unnerving her. And while the promise of what would happen when she and Roy reached their bedroom that night was there in the back of her mind, the feeling in her stomach was far from anticipation. She began chewing on her lower lip as they grew closer to their destination.

Of course, she’d been to the Fuhrer’s mansion before—almost daily, in fact—but she’d never been there like this. Never as it’s mistress. As the looming, palatial building came into view, the new lady of the house felt two tears slip down her cheeks. Why her emotions were affecting her this way, she couldn’t name.

Roy’s strong, scarred hand squeezed her fingers, and Riza looked up at her husband, who gave her a warm look.

“Welcome home, Riza.”

Maybe it was the sound of his voice. Or the gentleness of his words. Perhaps the tenderness in his gaze. But for whatever reason, as soon as she heard the words, the tension left her.

Home isn’t a place, she thought to herself. It’s not the walls and windows of a building. Home is more abstract.

And in that moment, Riza realized she’d always had a home. A place that made her safe and secure. A place where she could be stripped bare, exposing her scars and imperfections and receive no judgement. A place where she was loved.

The strong arms around her were her home. 

All of him was her home. The eyes that so often gazed at her with longing. The soft touch of his hand against hers. The familiar scent of his cologne. The abs that never failed to made her weak.

“We’re here, my love.”

Riza looked up to see he was right. The car was stopped in front of the front steps.

Pulling her eyes away from the regal manor, she looked at her husband and smiled softly.

“Home, sweet home,” she whispered.

Not understanding her meaning, Roy helped her from the car and swept her up in his arms.

“What are you doing?” she gasped in surprise.

“It’s tradition,” he announced, starting up the stairs. “The groom has to carry his bride over the threshold of their home.”

Riza shook her head at him and then dropped it to his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck. He could carry her over as many thresholds in as many houses as he wanted, she didn’t care. As long as he was at her side, she would be happy.