saint, sinner, matyr
Have a little piece that’s a little angsty, a little hurt-comfort and a little fluffy?? I also found out a riza (риза) is a russian term describing the gilding that they give to the portraits of their icons, so there you go!
There’s no particular timeframe for this piece, but I’m thinking prolly after Hughes’ death. Comments are always appreciated and encouraged!
It is three in the morning and Roy has been staring at the marks and lines on her back for a long time. Only some parts are highlighted by the streetlight that leaks into his apartment - the rest of the room is a hazy dull orange that reminds him far too much of Ishval and old research papers. He doesn’t need to strain his eyes to complete the sentences on her skin; finish the patterns that morph into mottled patches. He knows it all by heart – that the dip in her shoulder blades tells him the exact equation for transmuting oxygen around him, and the flare of her hips will help him calculate the distance from where the snap of his fingers is natural to when he needs to concentrate. If he were blinded and could only rely on his touch on her back he would still wager he wouldn’t get lost. Every muscle and piece of skin is known to him intimately.