Dude, You Suck and I Like the Other Dude (Laying Down the Ante)
I have decided to change the rating of this fic to T (for teen, yo) because I never know what I'm capable of writing, and I don't want to have restrictions that stop me from writing this fic correctly.
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The silence between them was intense. No one had done so much as breathe since the last one came. When he did, he was completely hungover, more so than the other. And almost right after he entered and thrown himself into a comfy armchair, he proceeded with lighting up a cigarette.
The awkwardness continued until, at last, Mustang spoke up; and as you can probably guess, he was not pleased. "Get rid of that. Just the smell of it's making me sick."
Havoc looked up, squinting with the sudden brightness. "But Colonel," he protested. "I just lit it--"
"--Now."
Reluctantly Havoc put out the newly burned stick of nicotine. And that was that. The colonel was clearly in no mood to deal with anyone at anytime, and his sudden change in attitude was brought on by who knows what. The only obvious thing that was still at hand was that he wished to speak to Havoc. At least, that's what everyone else in the room thought; why else would he call upon the lieutenant unless he wished to speak with him?
The lower-ranked lieutenant opened his mouth to say something, but he seemed to think about it some, because he closed it soon afterword, no words spoken. It was good thinking too, for then, Mustang spoke, his voice stern, yet barely audible.
"I need everyone out." There were the beginnings of protest, in which Mustang silenced with a simple raise of his hand. "Just for a while, an hour tops... I need time to think. I'll find you when I'm done."
This being said, the whole of the company removed themselves from their current locations, closing the door behind them, allowing the colonel the nessecary time he needed to mull things over.
When he was absolutely sure they were gone and out of hearshot, the sickening feeling in his stomach made itself known by pushing his breakfast back up the esophogus and out into the trashbin under his desk. He leaned back, his eyes closed, and covered his mouth with his hand; he knew what would soon follow if he didn't.
After a moment and when he decided he was no longer in danger of having anything else forced from his mouth, he relaxed himself, and began thinking about what was really bothering him. It wasn't the idea of knowing that two of his lieutenants were seeing each other (outside of work, that is) that made him sick, but he had a feeling that that was a small part of it.
He tried to convince himself that he hadn't been cross with Jean merely because he felt a sting of jealousy, but as he looked at the coral roses on his desk, he felt that that too seemed to come over as partly true.
"There isn't time for this," he thought aloud. There were new rumors of war in Lior, and knowning that Edward would soon need comfirmation on that, Mustang stopped thinking about what had just happened, and pulled a report out from the bottom of one of his work-to-be-done piles. He then turned the parchment over to the blank side, and with a pen wrote down a solution big enough for anyone to read that just happened to be down the hallway, if not further.
Finally satisfied with himself, he grabbed the paper and some tape, walked outside of the office, and stuck the sign on the front of his door. He smiled broadly and walked back to his desk, shutting the door behind him.
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"No smoking?"
"But why?"
"Oh, Havoc's going to have a fit when he sees this. Care to make any friendly wagers?"
It was now the next morning. Thursday. Mustang, liking the peace and quiet he got, "forgot" to go find the others after his hour was up, and uncertain of what to do, the whole of his company had gone home for the day. And now with the coming of a new day, Falman, Feury, and Breda had headed out to work, all arriving at approximately the same time outside of Mustang's office door.
When they stopped to read the sign plastered there, they turned to each other, all utterly clueless. Knowing that Havoc was way more than an avid smoker, none of them wanted to be in his presence when he saw what Mustang had done. And although they were itching to know the meaning behind this, they decided it would be better just to wait for Havoc to show up; that way the colonel wouldn't have to repeat himself once he got there.
Casually, the men walked into the office, quickly taking notice of the attitude of their higher-up. He seemed quite chipper, if that was the right word, but another way to describe it would be to say that he actually seemed...happy.
"Pardon me for asking, sir, but uhh...is anything the matter?" Falman asked.
"Of course not, today is a glorious day!"
"Then may I ask why there's a no smoking sign on the door?" Feury asked, no longer able to stop himself.
"No, you can't."
The room was silent until Mustang began whistling to an unfamiliar tune. His subordinates silently debated on whether he was well enough to miss out on a trip to one of the military's nurses, but after a while, they decided that they were not going to be the ones to try and force him to leave.
The new and mysterious sounds emitting from Mustang were beginning to be somewhat disturbing, so after a few moments, Breda volunteered to be to one to go downstairs for a refill of coffee grounds. But as all things go, his trip was extremely short-lived, for as he reached for the door handle to pull it open, the door was carelessly pushed in his face, causing him to stumble backwards.
"Sorry," Hawkeye said, peering around the door.
She was accompanied by a very disgruntled-looking Havoc who said nothing as he stepped over Breda and quickly made his way over to Mustang's desk. At this point, the Flame Alchemist was completely oblivious to anything happening around him, that is, until he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.
Mustang turned, only to have a fist plowed right into the side of his face.
He stumbled backwards, tripped over the chair at his desk, and was then lucky enough to have Falman standing behind him for he was able to break his fall. Silence engulfed the room as everyone waited to see what Mustang would do next. When he was able to steady himself, he looked at Havoc for a moment before turning away, a slight smirk on his lips. He was willing to excuse the lieutenant's rash behavior until, suddenly he began choking on something in his throat.
As they began to take notice the colonel's plight, his subordinates moved forward willing to aid him, but he held them at bay, motioning with his arms that he was fine. And he was once he was able to get rid of what was troubling him; he coughed once more, spitting blood onto the ground. He stared at it a while before straighting himself and fixing his shirt collar.
"Get out," he said, still watching the red goo on the floor.
Havoc was more than happy to comply with the colonel's wishes as he stalked past all of them, storming out of the building (probably to have asmoke).
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After Havoc had left, the room had been in a temporary pandemonium over the colonel's well-being; that is, until he was able to persuade them that it was nothing too serious. He instead warned them that they had a limited time to clean the floor before the blood stained, and after that things seemed to return to normal.
"Why did you do that?" Hawkeye said, placing herself in a postion that would keep Mustang's attention on her and not of that of anything else that might distract him.
"Do what?" Mustang said nonchalantly, picking up a report and scanning through it before signing the bottom and discarding into the next pile.
"You know that being able to smoke is what keeps him doing is job, so--"
"And he knows that smoking has never been allowed in the building," Mustang retorted, signing another paper.
Hawkeye sighed. She knew she could never win this fight, but she was willing to try for the sake of her new boyfriend. Just that word in itself made her shudder; she couldn't remember the last time she had a boyfriend or even if she'd ever had one.
"But you've never had a problem with it until now. Pardon me, sir, but what is the real reason for this?"
Mustang removed the paper that was currently blocking his view of Hawkeye. He looked her straight in the eye and said, "The real reason? I don't believe I owe you any explanation for my actions, Lieutenant."
Defeated, Hawkeye turned to leave, when she heard the phone on the colonel's desk begin to ring loudly. The both of them ignored it for a while, but finally she heard him answer it.
"Right. Send them up then." There was a pause before he hung up the phone. "Hawkeye," he called out to her. She turned to face him, noticing the look of discomfort on his face. "Havoc is no longer allowed the privilage of smoking because I...I have a disease."
"A disease, sir?" Hawkeye asked, finding his excuse pathetic.
"Lieutenant Hawkeye, I have lung cancer," he said at almost a whisper.
"Lung cancer?" she repeated, now taking him more seriously than before.
"I'm dying."
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HA! I never do cease to amaze myself; I can never stray away from angst and drama for very long, I just can't. I mean, what would the world be like without drama? That, I continue to ask myself, and the results are quite scary.
Actually, I'm quite happy to say that I have the reminder of this fic planned out and I'm sure y'all will be satisfied (at least) with how it ends. As for Mustang dying, I make no promises, but he. will. die. And that's final.