Heat Mirage
Title: Heat Mirage
Characters: Roy Mustang
Rating: totally worksafe
Spoilers: Kinda sorta hinted at for the whole series, but nothing is specified clearly
Notes: Not sure where this popped up from, but he decided to talk, so enjoy.
He had the honest belief that there was a misconception about him and why he had an affinity with fire. There seemed to be a running misunderstanding that it was the end all be all of his existence. It was not, had not been. He wished it never would be.
Once he’d been terrified of the flames. He’d watched them steal away things that were just shadowed memories in his adult nightmares. He remembered having a little sister once, and waking only to remember that she’d been dead since he was six. He could not remember how she died.
He walked into the office some days and had a near painful sense of nostalgia, the scent of tobacco still sharp on the air. He did not try to remember the other tall figure he remembered smoking around him when he was a small child, the man constantly scolded for doing it near him. Both phantoms had been gone before he turned ten, and they were no better remembered than his long dead sibling was, their deaths a mystery he refused to contemplate.
He did remember though, the first time he’d been to a bonfire gathering, the clarity of the memory in contrast to the amount of alcohol he’d imbued. He remembered watching his teenage companions joke and laugh, and one idiot jumping over the fire. There had been a rush to put him out, but he remembered sitting back to laugh. It was hardly his fault the idiot had ended up on fire.
He remembered the first time he stumbled over alchemy books, his intrigue over the air properties and the uses of water. He even remembered the first accidental mishap that had led to flames, the scurry to keep the nearby books from catching imprinted by way of smooth scars on three of his fingers.
It was easy to recall the many weeks of isolated trial and error to repeat his mistake, to control it. He had other scars from that too, just as small and hard to notice as those on his hands. He sometimes thought he was lucky to have fingerprints at all anymore.
He watched the mad scramble every year for the exams and remembered his own. There was no way anyone would ever know enough, but sometimes people thought if they scrounged by it would go easier. They were, of course, wrong.
He’d been lucky in his timing for that, catching the war and ending up dealing with a swift tutelage in weapons that were constantly awkward, a uniform that was far too snug, and a madman that was far too intriguing to keep him company on the trip in. There’d been no need or concern for a mad dash to study for him, instead it had been a mad dash to train.
The war itself he didn’t think about. It was like his sister, his parents. It was something that had happened and he could not change. Idiots at bonfires were still laughed at, burns still caused when reflexes demanded someone be put out immediately. Handling the awkward gun stayed with him, but the rest he could let slide away. They were nightmares and not reality.
He relished the rain. It was cool, refreshing, that thing that had led him to fire in the first place. They all claimed he was useless in the rain. It wasn’t so, and most of his best discoveries came on rainy days. He’d found the Elrics on such a day. He’d never lost anyone on such a day. Only the dry, sunny days seemed his enemy, taking best friend and enemy alike away with them.
He missed being able to admire a candle lit dinner. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever had the ability. He still knew how to fear fire, when fire had taken and changed him from innocence to cynicism. He’d been hardened by flames and it wasn’t really anything admirable.
Fire had not been the end all be all of his existence before. He had wished it never would be. Looking up at his destination, dressed in civilian clothes as he tugged on his gloves, he could not help hoping it would be one of his beloved rainy days.
Even if his enemy was to die by his fear… that did not mean he wished the same for himself.
Characters: Roy Mustang
Rating: totally worksafe
Spoilers: Kinda sorta hinted at for the whole series, but nothing is specified clearly
Notes: Not sure where this popped up from, but he decided to talk, so enjoy.
He had the honest belief that there was a misconception about him and why he had an affinity with fire. There seemed to be a running misunderstanding that it was the end all be all of his existence. It was not, had not been. He wished it never would be.
Once he’d been terrified of the flames. He’d watched them steal away things that were just shadowed memories in his adult nightmares. He remembered having a little sister once, and waking only to remember that she’d been dead since he was six. He could not remember how she died.
He walked into the office some days and had a near painful sense of nostalgia, the scent of tobacco still sharp on the air. He did not try to remember the other tall figure he remembered smoking around him when he was a small child, the man constantly scolded for doing it near him. Both phantoms had been gone before he turned ten, and they were no better remembered than his long dead sibling was, their deaths a mystery he refused to contemplate.
He did remember though, the first time he’d been to a bonfire gathering, the clarity of the memory in contrast to the amount of alcohol he’d imbued. He remembered watching his teenage companions joke and laugh, and one idiot jumping over the fire. There had been a rush to put him out, but he remembered sitting back to laugh. It was hardly his fault the idiot had ended up on fire.
He remembered the first time he stumbled over alchemy books, his intrigue over the air properties and the uses of water. He even remembered the first accidental mishap that had led to flames, the scurry to keep the nearby books from catching imprinted by way of smooth scars on three of his fingers.
It was easy to recall the many weeks of isolated trial and error to repeat his mistake, to control it. He had other scars from that too, just as small and hard to notice as those on his hands. He sometimes thought he was lucky to have fingerprints at all anymore.
He watched the mad scramble every year for the exams and remembered his own. There was no way anyone would ever know enough, but sometimes people thought if they scrounged by it would go easier. They were, of course, wrong.
He’d been lucky in his timing for that, catching the war and ending up dealing with a swift tutelage in weapons that were constantly awkward, a uniform that was far too snug, and a madman that was far too intriguing to keep him company on the trip in. There’d been no need or concern for a mad dash to study for him, instead it had been a mad dash to train.
The war itself he didn’t think about. It was like his sister, his parents. It was something that had happened and he could not change. Idiots at bonfires were still laughed at, burns still caused when reflexes demanded someone be put out immediately. Handling the awkward gun stayed with him, but the rest he could let slide away. They were nightmares and not reality.
He relished the rain. It was cool, refreshing, that thing that had led him to fire in the first place. They all claimed he was useless in the rain. It wasn’t so, and most of his best discoveries came on rainy days. He’d found the Elrics on such a day. He’d never lost anyone on such a day. Only the dry, sunny days seemed his enemy, taking best friend and enemy alike away with them.
He missed being able to admire a candle lit dinner. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever had the ability. He still knew how to fear fire, when fire had taken and changed him from innocence to cynicism. He’d been hardened by flames and it wasn’t really anything admirable.
Fire had not been the end all be all of his existence before. He had wished it never would be. Looking up at his destination, dressed in civilian clothes as he tugged on his gloves, he could not help hoping it would be one of his beloved rainy days.
Even if his enemy was to die by his fear… that did not mean he wished the same for himself.