02. possibilities
By the time he is twenty, Kain has mastered the art of the can opener. It's in self-defense. Some -- most -- all of his friends have bad habits; everyone in the military does, but Havoc would be the all-out winner. What the man consumes may just kill him. Diet, Kain knows, is a prolonged game of bullet roulette. If you're careless, you'll end up paying the price.
And Kain isn't comfortable with carelessness. He's not made for it, with a weak stomach and a brow that breaks into a cold sweat whenever the floorboards creak in winter. Surprises give him that sick little flutter in his gut. Surprises can't be planned for, by definition, and accidents are only one second from going out of control. From there, it all tumbles down into disaster. You can't erase a tragedy. Warning labels exist for a reason.
Havoc is not like him. That's because Havoc is crazy.
Within two steps of entering Kain's apartment, the Second Lieutenant always tries to eat the nearest object that comes to hand -- including bread so moldy that it resembles a mossy sweater -- so rather than ferry his friend to the hospital, Kain provides offerings in the form of instant meals. They're gestures of mercy, for his own sanity. Kain's great-aunt once was stricken by a nasty case of salmonella after consuming an undercooked chicken fillet, and ever since, Kain has ordered his food crispy.
The can opener is part of that. So is the frying pan, the thrice-scrubbed steel pot, and a battered kettle. Kain always watches Havoc with a combination of camaraderie and dread whenever the man orders eggs-over-easy off the menus of local diners, picking house specials and food off other people's plates with equal nonchalance.
Havoc is possessed by one of the most subdued self-destructive impulses that Kain has ever seen, with the exception of Lt. Colonel Mustang. It's not just Havoc's dietary habits that are lethal. Smoking, drinking, dating strange women -- it's bad for him, it's dangerous, and Kain always wonders why Havoc doesn't choose to play it safe. That the reason it's so painful to watch Havoc is because the man falls madly, deeply in love with strangers in the same way that drunks drive off bridges, chasing the moon. He is hypnotized too easily. He's enthralled with what pleases his eye, and believes in second chances too readily.
Kain knows better. He knows how quickly things can change from bad to worse; how some acts cannot be undone, which is why it's so important to take care of what you can before it's too late. Plan out everything ahead of time. And then when disaster strikes, grab your pistol and your nerve -- there's no time for distraction from a pair of breasts, a cigar.
But Havoc has a shorter attention span than Kain when it comes to caution, and an endless fascination for the fanciful. It makes him reckless. Like the time that Havoc discovers that fish luminesce -- no, really luminsece, tiny scales glimmering under the aquarium light. He'd claimed over and over that the phrase was metaphor only, but one afternoon in early winter, Havoc swaggers through the door and is attracted instantly to Kain's newest acquisition.
"You own fish now?"
Kain ignores the question at first, staring at the tank. Every time he looks at it, he finds himself wondering why fish need to shine, move like mica-chips underwater. Don't predators find them easier that way?
Aren't they calling attention to themselves like that?
Havoc is still waiting for an answer, staring at him patiently. Kain coughs. "Yeah. They're my sister's," he excuses belatedly, smoothing his hair under his hand in stifled embarrassment. "I'm just taking care of them while she's away visiting some cousins up north. But I'm always worried about them... fish are so fragile. I keep thinking, I'm going to step out one day and come back to find them all bobbing on the surface."
"Like mushrooms," Havoc observes mulishly, toothpick twitching in his mouth as he leans closer to the tank. "Floating on the top of an onion soup bowl."
Kain scowls. "Do you live on your stomach, Havoc? Stop looking at them like that," he chastises immediately, watching Havoc loom in predatory hunger over the tiny creatures. "They're not edible."
"You were the one who interrupted me from dinner, Fury." Nonplussed, Havoc swivels away from the tank. "I came over because you said you wanted an excuse not to go to Second for poker tonight. That's going to disappoint a lot of officers," he adds sagely, sliding hands in pockets. "You provide them a valuable source of income each week."
Kain rolls his eyes. "I don't like betting if I don't have anything higher than a pair, you know that. Hang up your coat this time instead of dropping it on the floor, okay?"
"Being predictable and playing it safe are two different things, Fury." Havoc obeys partway, slinging his jacket over the nearest chair without sparing a glance to see if it lands or not. "You always complain about Second Crossing because of the food. Hasn't killed me yet."
The Second Lieutenant doesn't bother to notice when Kain represses a shudder. He's already disappearing into the kitchen, a small walk-in that is barely wide enough for a man to turn around in without bumping his hips to the sink. Kain, trailing behind, is forced to hover at the doorway while Havoc digs through the cupboards with a single-minded intensity.
"I don't have anything better than that," Kain protests when Havoc discovers the rows of generic-brand soup cans in the pantry, and thrusts one out in silent accusation. "I'm lucky enough to afford an apartment, Havoc, cut me some slack. You know what the pay's like." Pausing as he watches Havoc grunt and then peruse the label. "Do you even know how to open one of those?"
Giving the can a shake, Havoc gives a growl of a nod. "Sure I do. You just... hold on," he interrupts himself, setting the container on the counter and rummaging through his pockets. A glint of metal peeks through one hand; a spoon that is gripped as deftly as a knife. Tapping it against the soup can with all the concentration of a scholar, Havoc tilts his head to listen to the dull ringing. "You tap it a couple times like this to depressurize the contents... "
Astonished, Kain only blinks.
"... and then you just pop off the top."
Motivated by visions of dismemberment-by-cutlery, Kain sputters. "Put that thing down. And where'd you get it, anyway? It's not one of mine." Peering at the utensil with growing dread, the dark-haired Sergeant-Major frowns. "Hey... is that one of Second Crossing's spoons?"
"Maybe."
"That's stealing." Affronted with every inch of his sub-average height, Kain snatches the implement away, slapping it flat underneath his hand. It hits the counter with a morose clunk.
Mournful, Havoc regards the captive silverware. "How am I supposed to eat dinner now?"
"With your fingers." Holding stern against Havoc's wounded sulk for all of two seconds, Kain attempts the scowl again. "I'll make the soup. I know how. Get out of the kitchen before... before you hurt yourself."
Havoc doesn't seem too worried, only sidling past Kain with a whiff of pine aftershave. He wanders to the nearest window and levers it up with a squeak, retrieving a battered pack of cigarettes from a pocket. His shirt is partially untucked, flopping over his regulation belt with the eagle buckle; it's after-hours, but Havoc sometimes forgets to wear his clothes properly during work, too.
Kain pretends to ignore the smell of tobacco as he rummages through kitchen drawers for normal spoons, normal ladles and normal bowls.
"The Lt. Colonel said something weird the other day." Cigarettes on his knee as he searches for his lighter, and Havoc swaps nicotine into his mouth, toothpick out. "He said, 'everyone secretly believes that they're good at something, or even the very best. It's their justification for remaining alive.'" Fiddling his knuckles, Havoc snaps the toothpick in two and promptly throws it out the window despite therisk of pedestrians below. "Why do you think he said that?"
"I don't know," Kain confesses, wrinkling up his nose in the exact way his mother always told him it'd stick. "It does sound funny. Lt. Colonel Mustang has a lot of responsibilities. And I like working for him -- what would happen to us, if something happened to him?"
"You asked me that last week, Fury." Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Havoc shifts his weight so that he can kick up his ankles on the nearest endtable, boots making dark thunks when they come to rest on the wood.
"But --"
"We'll deal with it when it happens. Hey, is the soup done yet or can we go to Second Crossing?"
When it's wintertime, Kain's apartment is never insulated properly. Heat oozes out the cracks like an oiled cat, so even when Kain tapes blankets over the windows, the chill sneaks in. His neighborhood block is filled with underling officers, all assigned to subpar quarters as a test of their immune systems. Havoc drinks cup after cup of coffee in order to stay warm whenever he's over. The caffeine makes him edgy after the third, until he's drumming his fingers on the tables and playing impromptu percussion off the lampshades.
Havoc has a steady hand with a rifle. Steadier than Kain's, no matter how much coffee has been downed. Havoc is a better driver except when it rains, because he takes the corners too sharply and lets the wheels skid; even though he's cavalier and solemn by degrees, the Second Lieutenant is reliable with all his talents, and that's why the Lt. Colonel trusts him with a gun, trusts him on missions that anyone else would have needed backup for.
It makes Kain feel like it's all he can do just to keep up. Sometimes.
The apartment slowly fills with the salted, greasy smell of chicken broth. Kain finds two bowls, both matched. There's not enough space in his kitchen for a dining surface, so Kain brings the meal out to the living room. He sets it down on the coffeetable, on top of a couple of ragged dishtowels to keep the cheap wood from being stained by heat and humidity. Havoc pulls himself over the back of a couch and sprawls while he waits for the liquid to cool, dripping ash carelessly across the floor from the cigarette in his fingers.
Schooling mindlessly together, the fish flicker through the artificial plants of the aquarium, making endless, shining loops.
Across the table, Havoc gives in and slurps a mouthful of soup, tilting the bowl up with both hands. His adam's apple bobs, jerky with hunger. Havoc closes his eyes halfway when he drinks, blankly rapt upon his business.
It's a moment broken out of time: Havoc's throat, the small nick of a shaving cut just underneath his jaw, the splay of his silverware in one set of long, lanky fingers. The neutral, dead smell of winter outside, distinctive only because of the way it's filled with a blank chill and burning dust from the radiators. Generic soup on the stove. It's a moment that, Kain knows, won't be there forever, because accidents will catch up eventually. Whether on the field of war or as innocently as an allergic reaction from scrambled eggs -- safety only lasts as long as you can stretch it out.
When he catches Kain looking, Havoc lowers the dish and flashes him a quick smile. "Thanks for the meal, by the way."
"No," Kain answers, the words numb out of his mouth. "Thank you."