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Fic - "Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown"
Title: "Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Character/Fandom: Jean Havoc and Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: R
Word Count: 837
Warnings: Violence. War-related breakdowns and angst.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Set during the Ishbalan war. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15_minute_fic. Prompt is under the cut. Also for 10_hurt_comfort, prompt #8. "Emotion." Named after the Stones song. Not much to say about this one.
This week's prompt was: impact.
Mustang's fist hit the back of Havoc's shoulder so hard the younger man reeled forward a couple of steps. It had come out of nowhere, cutting the man off mid-sentence, so hard that Havoc staggered as he turned around.
Mustang's eyes were blazing with fury, his lips trembling in a snarl. Under the vivid desert moonlight, he looked almost demonic in his sudden rage.
"Take that back, Havoc," he whispered.
"Don't you fucking hit me," Havoc said, all protocol forgotten, voice coming out sharp and surprised and not a little hurt; he'd thought he and Mustang were kind of getting to be friends. Or as least as much friends as their difference in rank would allow. His shoulder throbbed, and he reached behind himself to squeeze it.
"If you think," Mustang continued, voice terrible in its calmness even as his face contorted with rage, "that I'm going to take that kind of shit from a fucking little country rube from some ass-backwards hick town-"
"Oh, fuck that," Havoc snapped, reaching forward with his free hand. He didn't even ball it into a fist, just hit Mustang with a stern shove right against his breastbone. Even so, it was almost enough to send the smaller man to the ground. "Country rube my fucking balls, you think you're so much better-"
Mustang's second, third, and fourth punches hit him square in the stomach in rapid succession. He knew what he was doing, too; Havoc lurched forward, the smoldering roach of a cigarette clamped between his lips tumbling out of his mouth and extinguishing itself in the sand below them as his breath whooshed out of him.
"I said," Mustang repeated, "I said, you take that-"
Havoc lurched forward, knocking against Mustang, bringing his fist this time into Mustang's oh-so-pretty, high-and-mighty, I'm-so-much-better-than-you-are face. Blood gushed from his split lip, and Havoc felt a surge of satisfaction to combat the hollow, ringing ache in his gut.
Not so cocky now, are we? He started to say, but Mustang lurched forward. His knee went out expertly, and before Havoc knew it, they were on the ground, rolling, punching, kicking, clawing, shouting insults. The thirsty sand all around them absorbed their splattering blood like a sponge, and when they kicked up sprays of it, it settled over their wounds and stuck against their sweaty skin. Their knuckles grew raw and bled from pounding against it.
"Fuck you," Havoc heard Mustang growl. He was below him now, having long ago lost the upper hand. He might've been more trained up and more refined, but in the end he just lacked the physical size to take on Jean Havoc for very long. Add the fact that his alchemic gloves were shut away in the foot locker in his tent now the day's extermination was done and he hadn't a shot in hell. But he was still putting up a good effort, so Havoc kept dealing him blows. It was a conditioned reaction.
"Fuck you," Mustang gasped, "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, f-fuck you-"
And all at once, Havoc realized the man beneath him was in tears.
He pulled back all at once, sitting up on his knees as the red cloud of rage around his mind dissipated, and looked down. Mustang's face was a mess; his nose and a small cut under his eye had joined his lip in leaking steady streams of blood down his face, and the viscous red was awash with tears and sweat, the whole thing muddied by the sand and shaking violently with the force of his sobs.
"Oh, shit," Havoc said softly. "Oh, Sir, I..."
Mustang rolled over onto his side and spat a mouthful of bloody bile onto the ground. The sand drank it up.
"How bad did I hurt you?" Havoc said, gingerly reaching down. Mustang's face was hot under the sticky wetness.
"...It's... it's f-fine," Mustang choked out. Suddenly he seemed almost to float upward, as he vaulted himself upward and back against Havoc. Not fighting this time, though; he pressed his face against the disheveled fastenings of Havoc's uniform and wrapped his arms around his waist. He barked another sob. Blood and tears soaked into the blue wool, staining it with senseless blots of purple.
Confused, Havoc looked down at him, arms raised awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do.
"Sir?" He asked.
"I'm sorry," Mustang moaned, thick and garbled against Havoc's stomach. "I'm so sorry..."
"...It's okay," Havoc finally said. He pressed one flat, uncomfortable palm against Mustang's shoulder and squeezed. Somewhere behind them, he heard the soft, sifting thump of dozens of boots against the shifting sand as the night patrol was deployed. Further away still, he heard muffled gunfire. One of the Ishbalan submachine guns; he might've been no more than a trainee, but he could tell that much. "Nothing like a good fight to clear you head, right?"
Mustang didn't answer. Just pressed his face more deeply into Havoc's belly. The bruises already forming there from Mustang's earlier assault protested, but Havoc didn't quite dare ask him to pull back.
"What did I say to set you off?" He asked a few moments later, once the Major had stilled against his chest.
"You didn't say anything," Mustang said, and for some reason this sent him into a fresh wave of tears.
Author:
raja815Character/Fandom: Jean Havoc and Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: R
Word Count: 837
Warnings: Violence. War-related breakdowns and angst.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Set during the Ishbalan war. Written for
15_minute_fic. Prompt is under the cut. Also for 10_hurt_comfort, prompt #8. "Emotion." Named after the Stones song. Not much to say about this one.This week's prompt was: impact.
Mustang's fist hit the back of Havoc's shoulder so hard the younger man reeled forward a couple of steps. It had come out of nowhere, cutting the man off mid-sentence, so hard that Havoc staggered as he turned around.
Mustang's eyes were blazing with fury, his lips trembling in a snarl. Under the vivid desert moonlight, he looked almost demonic in his sudden rage.
"Take that back, Havoc," he whispered.
"Don't you fucking hit me," Havoc said, all protocol forgotten, voice coming out sharp and surprised and not a little hurt; he'd thought he and Mustang were kind of getting to be friends. Or as least as much friends as their difference in rank would allow. His shoulder throbbed, and he reached behind himself to squeeze it.
"If you think," Mustang continued, voice terrible in its calmness even as his face contorted with rage, "that I'm going to take that kind of shit from a fucking little country rube from some ass-backwards hick town-"
"Oh, fuck that," Havoc snapped, reaching forward with his free hand. He didn't even ball it into a fist, just hit Mustang with a stern shove right against his breastbone. Even so, it was almost enough to send the smaller man to the ground. "Country rube my fucking balls, you think you're so much better-"
Mustang's second, third, and fourth punches hit him square in the stomach in rapid succession. He knew what he was doing, too; Havoc lurched forward, the smoldering roach of a cigarette clamped between his lips tumbling out of his mouth and extinguishing itself in the sand below them as his breath whooshed out of him.
"I said," Mustang repeated, "I said, you take that-"
Havoc lurched forward, knocking against Mustang, bringing his fist this time into Mustang's oh-so-pretty, high-and-mighty, I'm-so-much-better-than-you-are face. Blood gushed from his split lip, and Havoc felt a surge of satisfaction to combat the hollow, ringing ache in his gut.
Not so cocky now, are we? He started to say, but Mustang lurched forward. His knee went out expertly, and before Havoc knew it, they were on the ground, rolling, punching, kicking, clawing, shouting insults. The thirsty sand all around them absorbed their splattering blood like a sponge, and when they kicked up sprays of it, it settled over their wounds and stuck against their sweaty skin. Their knuckles grew raw and bled from pounding against it.
"Fuck you," Havoc heard Mustang growl. He was below him now, having long ago lost the upper hand. He might've been more trained up and more refined, but in the end he just lacked the physical size to take on Jean Havoc for very long. Add the fact that his alchemic gloves were shut away in the foot locker in his tent now the day's extermination was done and he hadn't a shot in hell. But he was still putting up a good effort, so Havoc kept dealing him blows. It was a conditioned reaction.
"Fuck you," Mustang gasped, "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, f-fuck you-"
And all at once, Havoc realized the man beneath him was in tears.
He pulled back all at once, sitting up on his knees as the red cloud of rage around his mind dissipated, and looked down. Mustang's face was a mess; his nose and a small cut under his eye had joined his lip in leaking steady streams of blood down his face, and the viscous red was awash with tears and sweat, the whole thing muddied by the sand and shaking violently with the force of his sobs.
"Oh, shit," Havoc said softly. "Oh, Sir, I..."
Mustang rolled over onto his side and spat a mouthful of bloody bile onto the ground. The sand drank it up.
"How bad did I hurt you?" Havoc said, gingerly reaching down. Mustang's face was hot under the sticky wetness.
"...It's... it's f-fine," Mustang choked out. Suddenly he seemed almost to float upward, as he vaulted himself upward and back against Havoc. Not fighting this time, though; he pressed his face against the disheveled fastenings of Havoc's uniform and wrapped his arms around his waist. He barked another sob. Blood and tears soaked into the blue wool, staining it with senseless blots of purple.
Confused, Havoc looked down at him, arms raised awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do.
"Sir?" He asked.
"I'm sorry," Mustang moaned, thick and garbled against Havoc's stomach. "I'm so sorry..."
"...It's okay," Havoc finally said. He pressed one flat, uncomfortable palm against Mustang's shoulder and squeezed. Somewhere behind them, he heard the soft, sifting thump of dozens of boots against the shifting sand as the night patrol was deployed. Further away still, he heard muffled gunfire. One of the Ishbalan submachine guns; he might've been no more than a trainee, but he could tell that much. "Nothing like a good fight to clear you head, right?"
Mustang didn't answer. Just pressed his face more deeply into Havoc's belly. The bruises already forming there from Mustang's earlier assault protested, but Havoc didn't quite dare ask him to pull back.
"What did I say to set you off?" He asked a few moments later, once the Major had stilled against his chest.
"You didn't say anything," Mustang said, and for some reason this sent him into a fresh wave of tears.