Sawdust and Photographs
~A tribute to the late Brigadier General Hughes~
The light shines in from outside, through the thin spaces between the curtains. With all the money the military makes, it's a wonder why they could not afford better for its officers.
Grudgingly, you get up from bed. Your head hurts, even though you don't remember drinking the night before. Not much anyway, just enough to see poor Hawkeye fussed like a hen.
You push off the covers and watch in fascination how the dust floats around in the dull light as the last remnants of the previous night's dream slips past. You can't remember what you were dreaming of—just that it hadn't been good. That dream is just one of those that wake you up with sweat clinging on to your skin. Not in the good way either.
The carpet is warm under your feet, heated by the morning sun. You wonder what time it is, or why nobody—especially your nag of a second-in-command—is banging on your door yet, demanding that you wake up and report.
Now
'To hell with them,' you want to say. When you become the Fuhrer, this will change. No more waking up before noon. Not for you, at least.
Your uniform's on the floor, strewn there carelessly by yours truly last night. The gloves are on the table; at the other end of your room, you boots lay under the chair.
"You will never pass inspection like this," he says. Dressing quickly, you move to stand in front of the mirror, smiling at your friend—sometimes lover—sitting on the chair beside your bed. His uniform, unlike yours, is neatly pressed and starched, his badges polished to shine even in the barest of light.
"Just as well I'm the one inspecting then," you reply with a smirk, pulling a glove smugly over your right hand, the red transmutation circle spread across it like a devil's mark. From the mirror, you see him walk and stand beside you, no longer within range of the glass's reflection, and tug impatiently at your collar. You turn to let him adjust it properly for you.
"You should really get yourself a wife," he reminds, the way he had ever since he got married. You sigh and close your eyes.
"Why? I have you to do the ironing for me."
With your eyes closed, you miss the stricken look that passed his face. His fingers falter and finally let go.
"You know I can't, not anymore." When you open your eyes again, it's an empty room that greets you. Gingerly, you trial your fingers over the stiff material of your collar, hoping to catch some warmth that may tell you he was real.
There was none.
You shrug, and move to retrieve your boots, all the while cursing the chore of having to fasten those complicated clasps.
Brushing your hand over a photograph, hidden from view by the heavy boots, you picked it up and pressed it against our face, relishing the feel of its sun-warmed surface against your cold skin.