Unidentified narrator who obsesses. I'm hopped up on Excedrin. Whee. Tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: I don't own much, certainly not Fullmetal Alchemist. Anyone got fifty cents for the bus?
Four hundred seventy-three words: Thinking
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I think I'm not paid to think, but sometimes I think when I'm supposed to be doing the things for which I'm paid.
I think about him, which is something I'm most certainly not paid to do.
I think about the way his uniform fits him most of the time. It fits him well in the shoulders and not so well anywhere else, like most people, but it's like it molds itself to his torso whenever he puts it on. On anyone else, myself and even the Fuhrer included, the uniform looks frumpy and pinched and just plain bad – but on him…
I think about that grin that he wears to please the higher-ups. I of all people know that he's human, that he's not always happy or even always content. And still he shoots off that grin, scrunching up his eyes and tossing up a wave when he can pull it off and joke around. It infuriates me sometimes, and it makes me sad. I wish he would let it fall long enough to let someone – preferably me – see him cry. But in the military, we are men, and in the military, men don't cry.
I think about his hair, and his eyes, and sometimes his whole face. I wonder if, when I get the chance to run my hands through it, his hair will be soft. I wonder if, were I to get the chance to look him in the eye, I would see his secrets or his soul; even a faint glimmer of real emotion would help. I wonder if, were I given the chance to kiss him, my lips could memorize his features and store them away for a rainy day when I feel lonesome.
I think about his cigarettes, and whether or not a kiss from him would taste like one. I wonder if I could be the one to break him of his dependency, to trade one addiction for another, the other being me. Does his room smell of acrid smoke, or does he open the window, or does he just go outside? I can smell smoke on him when he walks anywhere close to me, but I wonder if that's just because he's not careful about the way it blows or if it's because it's soaked into every fiber of his life.
I think I would like to be like that, soaking into every fiber of his life.
I think if I sigh one more time, Farman's going to pelt me with a piece of equipment that needs to be repaired anyway.
I also think that, more than anything else, more than my job or more than the worry of Riza Hawkeye forcing me to work with several well-placed bullets, I think about Jean Havoc and the things about him that need to be thought about.