[ there's a soft exhale and a wave of his hand, dismissing the apology as easily as it arrives. ]
And I'm not.
[ it's said simply, because roy doesn't need to go into much more detail, than that. maes knows him better than roy knows himself -- clearly, if hughes is seeing all of this from his perspective, and roy isn't. but roy isn't a helpless romantic, in that sense. he is a naive optimist, and he believes strongly in his vision of the future, and he feels too much, and he is definitely too soft-heartened, especially when it comes to the people he cares about.
but the romantic is a charade, a front, to lure people into a false sense of security. to ensure that people continue underestimating him, and continue looking the other way while he works. it's better to blend in, when you think roy is an idiot.
still . . . he purses his lips, trying to figure out what to say next, and he settles on honesty. ]
If she asked me, today, to stop chasing the end-goal of changing Amestris and retire and go live in the middle of nowhere without any access to modern civilization, I would do it. [ with the quiet seriousness that becomes him, at this late hour, after this many drinks. ] She makes me a better person. She keeps me honest. She's the reason why I'm still alive, and why I'm able to keep going. She's trusted me with all of her secrets, and she knows all of mine. I would do anything for her.
[ he reaches out to take the bottle, but instead of pouring another drink, he corks it. they've clearly had enough. ]
I don't know what it is, anymore, but it seems cheap to call it something, somehow. There's not a word for it. I don't think there needs to be.
[ and he folds his arms once more over his chest, looking evenly across the table at maes, his expression easing into a familiar exasperation. ]
Satisfied? [ and then, a little more under his breath, as he glances towards the ceiling: ] Busybody.
no subject
And I'm not.
[ it's said simply, because roy doesn't need to go into much more detail, than that. maes knows him better than roy knows himself -- clearly, if hughes is seeing all of this from his perspective, and roy isn't. but roy isn't a helpless romantic, in that sense. he is a naive optimist, and he believes strongly in his vision of the future, and he feels too much, and he is definitely too soft-heartened, especially when it comes to the people he cares about.
but the romantic is a charade, a front, to lure people into a false sense of security. to ensure that people continue underestimating him, and continue looking the other way while he works. it's better to blend in, when you think roy is an idiot.
still . . . he purses his lips, trying to figure out what to say next, and he settles on honesty. ]
If she asked me, today, to stop chasing the end-goal of changing Amestris and retire and go live in the middle of nowhere without any access to modern civilization, I would do it. [ with the quiet seriousness that becomes him, at this late hour, after this many drinks. ] She makes me a better person. She keeps me honest. She's the reason why I'm still alive, and why I'm able to keep going. She's trusted me with all of her secrets, and she knows all of mine. I would do anything for her.
[ he reaches out to take the bottle, but instead of pouring another drink, he corks it. they've clearly had enough. ]
I don't know what it is, anymore, but it seems cheap to call it something, somehow. There's not a word for it. I don't think there needs to be.
[ and he folds his arms once more over his chest, looking evenly across the table at maes, his expression easing into a familiar exasperation. ]
Satisfied? [ and then, a little more under his breath, as he glances towards the ceiling: ] Busybody.