The Mourning After
Major Roy Mustang woke from uneasy dreams on a cold floor in a puddle of his own vomit. As he raised his head, some of it, flaky and dried, stuck to his cheek.Discomfort at thatcombined with the utter pain in his head lead him to drop his head back down, the patches of vomit on his cheek imperfectly re-covering the bare floor where they'd just been torn from like a puzzle piece that hadn't quite been fit into place.
He fought to remain conscious, and slowly forced his mind to analyze the situation. He kept his attention on the vomit that he was by now too well acquainted with but not aware enough to be repulsed by. He'd been lying in the exact same spot, for some time. On its side, an empty bottle of rum lay next to him. He scowled, his first expression since consciousness flaking some of the vomit on the side of his mouth off when it changed from the expressionless mask where it had dried. Why the hell'd he been drinking nasty stuff like that? His father's well-stocked liquor cabinet with the busted lock meant that he never had to stoop that low to get drunk.
Next, he noticed a pistol lay next to the bottle. For some unknown reason, conditioned to the point where it was nearly instinctual, this made him uneasy. Pistol, uneasy, pistol, uneasy…it didn't ring a bell. Then it all came together, gun, bell, and conditioning: he was a dog of the military. Leaving a sidearm out like this could get you thrown in the brig. Something else about it unsettled him, too but he couldn't put his finger on it.
His eyes returned to the bottle of rum, the realization of his situation increasingthe bottle'sworth dramatically. Any alcohol that wasn't distilled out of gasoline siphoned from thejeeps was precious. There must have been a major celebration for the brass to even consider breaking this out for the lower ranks. As far as alcohol went, major was a lower rank. No one below that ever got any.
He tried to at least sit up but was unsuccessful until he put forth all his effort into shoving his torso up off the floor. He paused for a second in an upright position and continued in the arc over the other side, landing in the exact same position on the other side of his body. The floor was especially cold on his bare cheek, without the insulation afforded by vomit. He chuckled. It seemed no matter what, he didn't seem to be able to get away from the disgusting stuff in his thoughts. There was something fitting about this but he couldn't think why.
Though the worst of his hangover was receding over the next few minutes, his headache remained as he recalled more of his situation. He had at least had the good fortune or drunken foresight to pass out in one of the few cool places on the base. The basement of the logistics building, the only permanent building in camp, was dark quiet and cool. Built during the first months of the war in an almost uncanny bit of foresight to the length of this campaign, it was a massive, imposing concrete structure at the center of camp. The walls were thick enough for the troops to fortify if they were overrun and in the tiny slits of windows were the now wind-blown emplacements to mount guns. The basement lock had broken several months ago and the quartermaster, a quiet older man who had been in the army too long to enjoy pulling rank over the grunts, now quietly looked the other way when they went down there to take refuge from the heat.
He unsteadily rose, first into a sitting position and then haltingly standing up. He shoved his pistol into the back holster and prepared to face a reprimand for this.
He was surprised that it was dusk outside. The shadows helped him to slip back into his canvas barrack unnoticed. He considered heading to the mess hall but he looked a total mess. His stomach also grumbled threateningly at the suggestion as the hangover reminded him it was still there and wasn't nearly ready to eat yet. He finally decided to take a shower.
The soldiers of Amestris had learned early on that it was useless to try to keep clean by civilian standards in this harsh dirty environment where everything from the natives to the very environment seemed hostile. Roy had been there long enough he'd grown used to it. The only time he felt uncomfortable anymore was when he was around the female officers and they'd go off to The Basement or his barracks.He'd light the old candle next to the tent's entrance to let theofficer's he shared it withknow he needed privacy.Then he and some other poor, depressed soul wouldfrantically and passionately try to distract themselves from the war.
He still had one shower left in his monthly water allowance but there was still a week to go. But Roy didn't think there would be any other time in the next week he'd need a shower more than he did now. If he had to go through something as bad as this or worse he'd get a shower anyway, albeit a cold one sprayed by a high-pressure hose in the hospital when he went Section 8.
The shower now served as a form of therapy and, even among the uneducated rank and file, a symbolic gesture of washing away the stress and horror of a particularly bad assignment. This evening Roy had the showers completely to himself and stood in a corner naked with his head bowed and his eyes closed and cold water ran over his body plastering his black hair to his face and creating tiny islands of dirt all over his body that the rivulets of water had not yet overwhelmed.
He looked down at his hands, covered with dark spots where burns from a mission a few days earlier were starting to blister. The palms were covered in spots the color of blood where his own was starting to pool under the skin. He was grateful for the shower, since no one could pick out tears amidst the torrents of water running over him.
He spent the rest of the night alone and early the next day applied for a special leave to conduct alchemic research so that, he claimed, he might perfect his flame to be even more lethal.
His body's clock was still out of synch so that he was often the only off-duty personnel awake the next few nights. It puzzled him that at dusk, after all of the excesses and vice they'd just been through a few days before, he was the only one who felt like morning.