Author's Note: First off, I'd like to thank all of you for your positive reviews. After a million and a half hours of debate, I've decided to continue the story, however, I have to admit this second chapter isn't as great as the first. Towards the middle it becomes a bit rocky, and for some reason, no matter how many times I re-do it, it still sounds off. Even this being said, I still want honest reviews so I can erase this fault of mine. The reviews will also aid me in deciding whether I've utterly killed a good story-- if I have, I /really/ want to stop while I'm ahead. Thanks a bunch. -- You guys are awesome. Well, here's chapter two. I hope you enjoy.

Chubby Cheeks

It was two mornings after Mustang's unfortunate rejection. Too bad heartbreaks didn't quite fall under the sick category; he found himself sitting in his office like every other Monday morning rather than wading in his pool of patheticness at home.

But it was also strange. He felt every bit of grief, yet he failed to convey it through tears or insults. In fact, he showed absolutely no grief whatsoever-- he was acting rather oddly.

Now, when I say oddly, I don't mean being uncharacteristically grotesque, rude, or fidgety. All of his ancillaries could safely conclude that something was bothering him when he was found staring in a round, black hand-mirror-- much longer than usual. But, no, today he wasn't basking in his flawless complexion, dazzling eyes, or that infamous smirk of his. He was doing quite the opposite.

He raised a hand to his face and first started prodding and poking his cheeks, then catching the skin between his index finger and thumb, stretching it away from its home. His eyes observed the reflection of his action, then shifted above the mirror to his working underlings.

"Warrant Officer Falman!" Falman jolted up with a flinch at the colonel's holler.

"Sir!"

The colonel's prodding ceased, and he lowered the mirror, setting it flat on his desk. Narrow eyes stared hard at his subordinate, and he was silent. The tension between them was great, and he decided to break it when Falman seemed to grow overwhelmingly uneasy.

"What do you think of my cheeks?"

It was apparent that his reaction was confusion as his brows knitted together and a frown curved his mouth downward.

"I apologize for my incompetence, Sir, but I'm not sure what you mean."

Mustang's stone face hardened. "Did I stutter, Falman? My cheeks. What. Do. You. Think?"

"As in…?"

"Do you deem them to be large?"

"I believe that's a matter of opinion."

"But what do you think?"

There was great hesitation before he answered. "I think…. they're proportional to your face."

Roy heaved a mental sigh, knowing that even if he asked the question as clearly and blatant as possible, someone like Falman wouldn't give him a straight answer. He moved onto Feury, dismissing the Warrant Officer with a nod (who saluted stiffly in return and lowered back to his work).

Thus, he brutally questioned Kaine, and then attacked Breda when the Sergeant failed to give him a definite answer… but to no avail. All three had utterly avoided the question, so he turned to his last resort (no. Not Hawkeye. Obviously there'd been a bit of tension between them during the first hours of the morning).

"I think they're fat, Chief."

"And that's precisely why I didn't ask you, Havoc."

"But you were going to."

Rather than acknowledging defeat, the prideful man dismissed the officers so he could bathe in his misery alone.

"You're dismissed to the mess hall. All of you."

"But it's only nine 'o--"

"Are you defying my orders, Feury?"

"No Sir!" The mousy man adjusted his thick-framed glasses and grew to be a bit flustered, following everyone else out of the room. That is, everyone except Havoc, who seemed to be sure everyone was out before he shut the door, propping himself up by resting his rear on the corner of his superior's desk. Mustang ignored his presence and peered back into the resting mirror.

"Mess hall. Now."
"What's the matter? Something bothering our all-mighty colonel?"

"Don't light that cigarette."

"Did you finally get rejected?"

"Put it out. Now."

"Aw… well a rejection is healthy every once in awhile."

"Are you deaf? You heard me. Put. It. Out."

"Who was it?"

"Lieutenant! What did I just say!"

"Colonel! What did I just say!" His subordinate challenged him. This fact alone was aggravating; it made him feel so weak… Oddly enough, this weakness was so great that he gave in to his inferior officer. In a more established case, it was apparent he would most definitely not give into such a degrading situation. But he did.

"How did you know?" They both smirked.

"You were starting to doubt your face." Mustang arched up a brow at this, narrowing his eyes again.

"What's that supposed to mean? My grandmother… once she informed me of my fat cheeks. I was just curious as to whether--"

"No offense, Sir, but that's a bunch of bull crap."

A defeated gaze locked onto his lieutenant. It soon disappeared as he tried to shrug off Havoc's remark.

"Well, maybe she thought I had chubby cheeks too."

"She wouldn't dump you just for a pair of fat cheeks."

"Are you saying I have more flaws?"

"It depends on who rejected you." Mustang gave him a puzzled look, motioning for him to elaborate. "Who did reject you, anyways?"

He'd tried to avoid that question from the beginning. He couldn't tell Jean.

"Well… maybe I do have more flaws. Such as my ego… it may be too big. Or maybe it was my hair-- what if she prefers blondes? Then again…I hadn't showered that morning. What if I stunk? Maybe I shouldn't be so generous when it comes to cologne…"

"Roy!"

"What?" They both hissed at each other. It seemed as though they were outside military walls now in spite of the stripes on their shoulders and stars on their sleeves. Roy was no longer superior Colonel Mustang, and Jean was no longer inferior Lieutenant Havoc.

"I confessed, and all she said that it was prohibited." He was given a confused expression. "…And I asked her, putting all regulations aside, what she thought of me. She didn't answer, Havoc. She didn't answer." Funny how he was seeking advice from someone who hadn't a single date in months.

"As I said before: a rejection is healthy every once in awhile. If every woman wanted you, your ego'd inflate so much that we'd have to strap you to a chair so you won't hit the ceiling fan blades."

"You don't understand."

"Well, if you were more open maybe I would."

That defeated expression plagued his face again, but this time it was stubborn. They both knew he'd give in sooner or later if Havoc's prying didn't cease. Havoc smiled a small sort of half-smile. A hand gesture was given to signify he wanted a response. Mustang picked up the hand mirror and held it in front of his face, blocking out any eye contact that might awkwardly attack him.

"Hawkeye."

Jean stared at Roy-- or, rather, the mirror blocking his face. Lower jaw hung like it'd just been detached; wide sapphire eyes remained still and locked onto the back of the mirror. They refrained from blinking, and all together, Jean had the appearance of a fish that'd just gotten slapped.

Damn lucky he put up that mirror.

His stature remained that way, dumbfounded and shocked, and Mustang heard him tried to speak, rambling about losing wagers or something of the sort. His stammering was an obvious hint that he was searching for something productive to reply with, but it didn't quite seem as though it was turning out well. Finally, it was silent, and Mustang knew Havoc had regained a more professional composure. He felt the hand mirror being lowered by Havoc's hand, but his own stiff hand was almost reluctant to do so. As a result of the lowered hand mirror, Roy's eyes lowered as well to burn a hole in the desk.

"You need to think optimistically about this. Her failure to answer could mean one of many things. Maybe, like you think, she doesn't like you, and she didn't want to hurt your feelings." The lieutenant paused to give Roy a disbelieving look, silently singling out this possibility. "Or maybe she thought you didn't like her back. You do have a reputation with the women around here, after all." True, but still, Roy seemed slightly dissatisfied, that thought no longer sounding appealing. However, it was relieving to get this thing off his chest though it wasn't entirely resolved.

"Thanks…. Lieutenant."

"No problem, chief." Once more they both smirked. The walls of the military surrounded them once more, sadly, but nonetheless. Mustang's smirk remained.

"Mess hall. Now." A chuckle escaped Havoc's mouth. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and snapped it in half. A weak salute was given to his now-remembered superior, and he pivoted himself around to head to the mess hall. He opened the door and stepped out, back turned to Mustang, and he spoke one last time before he left.

"I don't think they're chubby, Sir."