Chapter 2: Don't Look Back In Anger
A thin sliver of light was the only comfort from the darkness that swallowed everything else in the room. The pitch black hung heavily on everything inside the small room, and one could only identify one object in the dank room: a simple wooden chair. The light mingled with the shape of the simple chair, casting a thin shadow across the room that gave the illusion that the windows were barred. Then Colonel Roy Mustang slowly walked into the room from the equally-dark living room and closed the shade completely, and the light was no more. In the pitch black that he had and the walls of his house had conspired to make, Roy could not see a thing. Taking his right ignition glove out of his pocket, he snapped his fingers without much effort; almost immediately, a little ball of flame appeared in the middle of the room. It was about slightly smaller than a tennis ball, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Suspended almost dead center in the room, the flame illuminated the room in a way no natural light could; the bed, the chair, the select pictures, the disorganized drawer, the rarely-used lamp, all of these things were now visible. But the flickering flame also brought on other things. Twisting and moving on the ground and the floor, the shadows of Roy's things manifested themselves in a way that seemed strangely reminiscent of something…of burning buildings… Roy sat himself down on the old chair and stared intently at the flame. It danced with itself in the air, as though it was being held up by an invisible candle. Any ordinary person would have been unsettled or afraid of such a phenomenon, but not Roy Mustang. The first time he had done the same trick after returning from Ishbal, he almost had a mental breakdown; but by now he had decided that living in the shadow of Ishbal did nobody any good.
His eyes darted across all the things he could call his, and his bed was the first thing that caught his eye. Brand new from the best store if it's kind in Central, it certainly didn't show any of it's expensive attributes; the sheets and blanket were blue, and the 2 pillows were white. If anything, it looked cheap. But the most important detail about it was that it was designed for a single person. Truth be told, the stories about Mustang's womanizing exploits were actually quite exaggerated. It was definitely true that whichever part of the country he happened to be stationed in, there was no shortage of attractive women wanting a word with him whenever he had the time. What was not true were the rumors of him prowling the streets at night with beautiful women in his arms and "closing the deal" with them all night long. Mustang hadn't had a steady girlfriend since his teenage days, but that didn't make him the playboy that everyone thought he was. Sometimes he wondered where those ridiculous rumors came from…Probably Havoc's work, he smiled to himself. If Jean wanted to keep his girlfriends, he should stop bringing them to the office, because once they laid eyes on me… a sly sneer found its way to his face momentarily, then disappeared as soon as it had arrived. He was glad that even during these torrid times, he could still spare a moment here and there to be arrogant.
His eyes moved onward toward his drawers. It had 4 slots; the first 2 were closed, but the bottoms 2 were open and various pieces of clothing made their presence known in the flickering light. He felt a tiny urge to tidy up, but his body made no movement to follow through on those urges. I don't have much clothing anyway, so it's ok for now…He thought to himself. The only clothing of his worth keeping tidy were his military uniforms; those were hung in the closet in the living room. While the uniforms were not exactly comfy, he found himself inside one more often than not these days. He once again spared himself a quick smile; If only I can get Riza…I mean, all women in the military to wear miniskirts. Then the stuffiness would all be worth the while.
His eyes moved on once again, to the 2 objects that lay onto of his drawer, next to his lamp. The first object was his notebook. God knows how long he had been holding on to that little black book. Ishbal… He reminded himself… You've had it since then, and it shows. True to Roy's thoughts, the book was old and faded, its back cover torn off from reasons Roy couldn't recall off the top of his head. That book was a microcosm of himself; inside he had the names of all the people he knew, with many addresses and numbers to accompany them…I wonder where my ladies section is now… Roy thought to himself. Back when he was in Eastern HQ, he would slip every letter he got from women into the back of his notebook, for no reason other than to upset Havoc. Eventually, the pile grew so big that the notebook was not suffice; the last time he counted, the head count was 203. They're probably still in one of my unpacked boxes… maybe I should dig them out…But once again, his impulses were not matched by body movement. Not long ago, reading those letters would be able to cheer him up. After all, being so desirable was a chore that he never complained about. But lately, he just didn't want to anymore. He couldn't explain the sudden sea change; it was just something that happened. Further back in the notebook, he had his notes…notes on things like important military appointment dates… the current whereabouts of the Elrich brothers… his notes on Hughes final words and what Armstrong had relayed to him afterwards… He picked up the book and held it to the light and flipped through it. He stopped on a page where he had scrawled on big date on one whole page: May 3rd, 1889. Roy scratched his head; he could not recall what this date was or when he had recorded it. He pondered the numbers for a few seconds, and then placed the book back on his drawer. This is one particular mystery I'll let slide for now…
His eyes then met the final notable collection of objects in his room: his photographs. He only had 2, and he studied the first one as though this was his first time viewing it. It was a group photo of him and the men…and woman… under his command, taken at the front steps of Eastern HQ. He scanned the photo from left to right… There's Falman, stiff and serious as always…poor Fuery, he looks like a lost child who just wandered into the photo…how come Breda's staring off camera?...Havoc, you're such a poser… there's me…and there's Riza, clutching Black Hayate… It's been well over 7 years now…Riza Hawkeye. My most dependable aide. My ace in the pocket. My go-to-person. Always within an arm's reach. Always there to get the job done…. He stopped to scratch his head; how can she have such a sweet face but yet be such a horrible slave driver at the same time… In truth, Mustang found Hawkeye more attractive than 95 percent of the women who threw themselves at him. That meant 5 percent were prettier than she; and 5 percent was a sizeable number if someone were to do the math. But there's just something about Hawkeye…something that won't let my eyes wander far away from her…
Then he turned to the other photo. It was of two men in military uniform; one was carrying his military cap in his arm and looked serious; the other was grinning widely and lifting his cap with one hand above his head, as if saluting the photographer for a job well done. He leaned forward toward the photo, which had been taken after their promotions had been given…Hmm…Hughes still has his old heavy-rimmed glasses…wonder how I can remember that… Then he remembered that day in Ishbal. The day when he, in his depression, had insulted Hughes and his pursuit of a woman called Gracia. Hughes had grabbed him by the collar and glared at him eye to eye, where Mustang could make out every detail of the face that had rarely shown signs of anger until Mustang had let his careless mouth loose. I remember his words like as though it was yesterday…To own a house with the woman you love and live normally is a happiness that can exist anywhere…but it's the greatest happiness!... Mustang pondered these words…what is normal? He then thought about what he was doing right now, sitting in the dark while the little fire that he had given life to flickered above his head. The fire would go out soon, because the oxygen level of that particular spot was dropping; he had all the windows closed shut. The darkness slowly but surely returned to claim the ground it had lost when Roy had sparked the flame. Like this void in my existence… slowly growing to the point where I can't simply ignore it…He then thought of the 203 letters that he use to pride himself on…and suddenly felt like incinerating them all. He got up off his chair and picked up the photo of himself and Hughes, wiping a little dust off the sides. You're wrong Hughes…his thoughts blackened to match the darkness that crept closer from every side…You're wrong. The happiness you speak of can't be found just everywhere, it can only be found in one place…and I haven't found it yet. You were so lucky to have found Gracia so early…
The little flame drew its final breath and then disappeared; the room was now even darker than the way Colonel Roy Mustang had found it. He navigated his way back to his chair, overcome with a sudden feeling of unsatisfied vengeance. The murder of Maes Hughes would not go without retribution...Having virtually memorized his notes from his notebook, he spent the rest of the night running them through his head and revising every theory he had made about what had really happened that night. Occasionally, his tired body begged him to sleep, but Roy Mustang knew in his mind that there were more important things for him to spend his time on than just sleeping.
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Authors note – dec 2 fixed slight grammar errors; "percent" signs
- dec13 found a big factual error i couldnt ignore. thank
yew to everyone whos reviewed!
