A/N:Behold the Roy angst. That's all this is. Roy's not my favorite character, but I always write about him... Please review!
The material between his fingers was rough.
He ran his thumb over his middle and pointer finger almost absently. Tiny sparks jumped to life between his fingers only to die seconds after their birth. Without alchemy the cloth on his hand merely made tiny spark. It seemed like an innocent spark, and maybe it was. It was his alchemy that made the tiny sparks explode into a raging fire that devoured everything in its path. He was the reason so many Ishbalans feared fire.
The material between his fingers was rough.
When he had first started wearing his gloves his hand had been worn raw. The pad of his thumb was ripped to bloody shreds, and each snap had been a moment of agony. Still, he had worn the cloth and worked through the pain. He had spent countless nights curled around his hands trying not to cry or moan. Hughes had helped him smear his hands with ointment, but that only helpd so much. Now Roy had callouses all over his hands, but especially thick on his thumb and first two fingers.
The material between his fingers was rough.
The smell of sulfur was becoming stronger. These days Roy always smelled like sulfur and burnt people. His nose was filled with those two smells, and he was beginning to think he would never smell anything else ever again. It was a pity. He had so many smells he loved: new-cut hay, watermelon, apple pie, and so many other things. Though, anything would be prefferable to the sick smell of sulfur and burnt flesh. His thumb slipped against his fingers, and a myriad of tiny spark jumped to life and died in an instant.
The material between his fingers was rough.
So was war. War was rough, hard and dirty. It tore men and women apart, though now it was tearing boys and girls apart. Roy hated looking at the faces of the soldiers fresh to the fight. They looked like frightened children, and many of them were. They came and left quickly. Some left from disease or injury, but most left in death, bodies lost forever in a pile of rubble or covered in the sand. They were like the sparks: born into a soldier's life in an instant and taken out of it just as fast. Some, of course, survived. These soldiers were like the sparks that found fuel and began a fire. They brought destruction and death, but here it was either kill or be killed, destroy or be destroyed. There was no choice.
The material between his fingers was rough.
He used to love playing with fire. He had been fascinated by the transparent being that was so strong people feared it. One could look straight through fire, but could not walk through it. One could think he'd put out a fire, but miss the vital coal that kept it alive. One could be comforted, destroyed, burned, or saved by fire. Fire could be anything person wanted it to be, except safe. Fire was never safe. Roy was the Flame alchemist, he birthed the flame and controlled it. He was not safe either. He was one steps away from cracking like so many others had.
The material between his fingers was rough.
It reminded him there was work to be done. He had young-faced soldiers to protect with his flame, and Ishbalans to kill with it. He had a war to fight and win, because losing meant death. He would live with the smell of sulfur and burnt flesh in his nose, and the rough cloth on his hands. His gloves, unique and deadly, marked him to all as the Flame Alchemist: a deadly human weapon. Roy pulled off his gloves to wipe the sweat and grime off his forehead.
The skin on his hands was rough.