Drabble Nine: Apathy
Fury was not emotionless. He felt. He felt a lot. He felt it when they made jokes at his expense and he felt it when they looked at him like he was useless. He wasn't, but he was small and looked fragile. He wasn't fragile. He was stronger than they were half the time. He could look himself in the eye, in the mirror's reflection, and not break down and cry at this pitiful broken thing.
John Havoc had died a year earlier. A year. Fury was shocked he had lasted that long after John. He puked another eaten-alone dinner into the sink, his skin crawling. He was stronger than Roy, he hadn't cried. Of course, Roy and Havoc were bed mates; Fury just had a school girl crush. So he said. But these nights in the bathroom, he didn't bother to lie to himself. He was madly in love with Havoc, and the time they had spent together was the best times of his life. Not anymore.
He kept cheerful at work, after all, he wasn't hurt, wasn't broken down. He did his job better now, seeing as he had lost that distraction. He was especially pleasant to the Colonel, who had, after all, lost a lover. Then three months later started dating Riza, obviously just looking for companionship. Fury didn't care; in fact, he wished them the best, with a beautiful smile on his face.
It made him sick. How dare the Colonel, who had been given the most wonderful man in the world, recover so quickly from the death. It was unjust, cruel and just made Fury sick. When Hughes had died Roy had broken down so much he didn't even date for a year. Then he finally was persuaded to sleep with Havoc. Now Havoc was gone, and Roy had already moved on.
Fury barfed in the sink again.
He felt. He felt a lot. If Havoc had ever seen all of this emotion, surely, surely, he wouldn't have died after saying he loved Roy. No, his last words would instead be "I'm sorry I didn't know Cain". Said barfed in the sink yet again, then heaved several times, out of stomach contents.
If only… If only he could express himself to others, and not just in the bathroom, in the middle of the night, in front of the mirror, with tears in his eyes, and barf rolling past his lips.
If only.
End drabble nine.
I need to write something cheery soon.
