FMA Fic: "Too Cold" 1/1
Title: Too Cold
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Author: evil_little_dog
Characters/Pairings: Roy Mustang, kinda Olivier Mille Armstrong
Words: 142
Rating: K+
Summary: Roy hates the cold weather of the North.
Warnings: N/A
Disclaimer: Arakawa owns all. I just play in a sandbox.
fanfic_bakeoff prompt: “Delicate/Resolution”, and seta_suzume’s prompt of “Roy, winter clothes”.
X X X
In his head, Olivier Mille Armstrong is snorting, and saying, “Mustang, you’re too delicate.”
It isn’t that he’s delicate, Roy wants to argue, but that he’s not built for this kind of weather. He deserves better; warmer, rather than huddled up in these winter clothes. Even through the cotton of his underclothes, the wool itches and makes his skin prickle. And no matter how much he waxed his boots, snow still melted inside of them, and his feet blistered from the wet socks. “I’m not built for this kind of weather,” he tells himself, ignoring the Olivier-in-his-mind’s loud huff. He’d grown up in Central, and, aside from the time he’d spent at the Hawkeyes’ drafty mansion, he’d rarely been in the north, or dealt with snow. Nasty stuff.
“I’m making a resolution,” he said, “when I’m Fuhrer, I’m never coming north again.”
X X X
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Author: evil_little_dog
Characters/Pairings: Roy Mustang, kinda Olivier Mille Armstrong
Words: 142
Rating: K+
Summary: Roy hates the cold weather of the North.
Warnings: N/A
Disclaimer: Arakawa owns all. I just play in a sandbox.
fanfic_bakeoff prompt: “Delicate/Resolution”, and seta_suzume’s prompt of “Roy, winter clothes”.
X X X
In his head, Olivier Mille Armstrong is snorting, and saying, “Mustang, you’re too delicate.”
It isn’t that he’s delicate, Roy wants to argue, but that he’s not built for this kind of weather. He deserves better; warmer, rather than huddled up in these winter clothes. Even through the cotton of his underclothes, the wool itches and makes his skin prickle. And no matter how much he waxed his boots, snow still melted inside of them, and his feet blistered from the wet socks. “I’m not built for this kind of weather,” he tells himself, ignoring the Olivier-in-his-mind’s loud huff. He’d grown up in Central, and, aside from the time he’d spent at the Hawkeyes’ drafty mansion, he’d rarely been in the north, or dealt with snow. Nasty stuff.
“I’m making a resolution,” he said, “when I’m Fuhrer, I’m never coming north again.”
X X X