Buried up to the neck and suffocating.
Characters: Maes Hughes and Roy Mustang.
Location: Training grounds.
Rating: PG? PG-13? You know what, no. Everything's going to be happy. Smack a G on this thing.
Time: August 27th, morning.
Description: A dead man and his old friend Hughes meet again. Not under the planned circumstances.
As far as dog days went, this one was shaping up to look like a sunny one. Why, even the very sun was smiling (it must do that often)-- no clouds, no speck of rain, no chance of canceled training or the city tipping over. The way the sun was drooling might have been cause for concern, but it looked tired; Hughes didn't blame it. The grass was still soaked, the people were still sleeping, and even that blond who ran it all didn't look to be there yet.
Just as he'd intended, in all actuality.
There was a stillness to go with mornings, even in places that were supposedly warzones (not that Hughes doubted it was one, but it was -- different). Personally, Maes didn't like it. Stillness, the quiet-- too all-consuming. Overwhelming, in its own way, though he was sure there'd be a good number of people to laugh at him over it. That was fine, though: this place, for all of its cheery people, could use a few more laughs. A little less stillness, too. His hands were deep in his pockets, maybe dragging his feet just a bit as he headed out to the middle of the field (it was early! and sleep wasn't so easy with so many things to get used to), resolutely thinking on the morning and the morning only. The pot of coffee he'd left sit on his counter would probably be cold by the time he got back. Ah, well, more experiments to be done with that microwave...
Not thinking on anything else worked. Somewhat. His eyes might've been going back to the direction of Death heights a bit too often, and his feet might have dragged with just a touch of the wrong sort of slowness, but it worked. It'd gotten him through two nights of almost-full sleep, anyway. Too many other topics would crowd in, if the simple wasn't focused on and dealt with first.
That same part of him that quipped at the bad habits of others was snorting over his own avoidance, but the trick of mastering that part came with the added benefit of ignoring it. And keeping his thoughts just light enough to stay afloat.
Location: Training grounds.
Rating: PG? PG-13? You know what, no. Everything's going to be happy. Smack a G on this thing.
Time: August 27th, morning.
Description: A dead man and his old friend Hughes meet again. Not under the planned circumstances.
As far as dog days went, this one was shaping up to look like a sunny one. Why, even the very sun was smiling (it must do that often)-- no clouds, no speck of rain, no chance of canceled training or the city tipping over. The way the sun was drooling might have been cause for concern, but it looked tired; Hughes didn't blame it. The grass was still soaked, the people were still sleeping, and even that blond who ran it all didn't look to be there yet.
Just as he'd intended, in all actuality.
There was a stillness to go with mornings, even in places that were supposedly warzones (not that Hughes doubted it was one, but it was -- different). Personally, Maes didn't like it. Stillness, the quiet-- too all-consuming. Overwhelming, in its own way, though he was sure there'd be a good number of people to laugh at him over it. That was fine, though: this place, for all of its cheery people, could use a few more laughs. A little less stillness, too. His hands were deep in his pockets, maybe dragging his feet just a bit as he headed out to the middle of the field (it was early! and sleep wasn't so easy with so many things to get used to), resolutely thinking on the morning and the morning only. The pot of coffee he'd left sit on his counter would probably be cold by the time he got back. Ah, well, more experiments to be done with that microwave...
Not thinking on anything else worked. Somewhat. His eyes might've been going back to the direction of Death heights a bit too often, and his feet might have dragged with just a touch of the wrong sort of slowness, but it worked. It'd gotten him through two nights of almost-full sleep, anyway. Too many other topics would crowd in, if the simple wasn't focused on and dealt with first.
That same part of him that quipped at the bad habits of others was snorting over his own avoidance, but the trick of mastering that part came with the added benefit of ignoring it. And keeping his thoughts just light enough to stay afloat.