Fic - "Taste Memory"
Mar. 18th, 2009 09:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rajTitle: "Taste Memory"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Character/Fandom: Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 419
Warnings: Mangaverse Ishbal angst.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15_minute_fic back in November. Prompt was "tin." Found it in my WIPs folder; all done but never posted.
The tin plates gave rations an unpleasant aftertaste. It stuck with Roy long after swallowing his first bite and dragged up uncomfortable memories of dental visits, drills, and irritated gums trickling blood down his throat. Just one more little unpleasantry in the world of unpleasantness that was Ishbal.
Even so, he tried to continue with his meal, knowing he’d be ragged on if he didn’t. Can’t stomach real battle, eh there, Flame Alchemist? He could practically hear them now, and it didn’t do much to help the burning, convulsive feeling in his throat.
He looked down at the food he was trying so valiantly to do more than pick at. Dry, grainy scrambled eggs rehydrated from powder that gritted between his teeth just like the omnipresent sand. Fatty breakfast bacon with that awful metallic-mineral aftertaste. He tried not to think any more about it, tried to stick with the dentist memories, which were unpleasant but bearable. But his mind wouldn’t rest so easy.
The tin taste reminded him of yesterday, his first day, of the smell/taste that had surrounded him when he’d turned his flame alchemy on the towering pile of dead Ishbalans. They’d gone up quickly, but not quickly enough. They’d been dehydrated by the desert sun, but not dehydrated enough. He’d turned his back on the destruction he’d caused, the destruction they called clean up, but he hadn't turned fast enough. He’d been scorched by the heat of his bonfire, surrounded by the smells of burning hair, frying fat, and the metallic, tinny essence of burning blood that he could taste before he smelled.
He chewed slowly, trying not to think of blood, or flesh, or burning. Or alchemy. Or the fact that he was twenty-two years old, but felt about seven since he’d barely woken up the night before in time to avoid pissing himself after an ungodly nightmare of fire and heat and boiling blood that had crawled over his flesh even after his waking, like a swarm of Ishbalan beetles. There’d been no sleep the rest of the night. No sleep at all.
He looked down at his breakfast. Inhaled the flat, metallic scent of the plate and the fatty, burned smell of the overcooked bacon. Slowly, he lowed it to the ground. Walked away from the mess tent. Found a relatively private latrine. And vomited until there was nothing inside him but sour spit.
Then he calmly turned back and returned to his rations, determined not to let the others know.
Author:
raja815Character/Fandom: Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 419
Warnings: Mangaverse Ishbal angst.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for
15_minute_fic back in November. Prompt was "tin." Found it in my WIPs folder; all done but never posted. The tin plates gave rations an unpleasant aftertaste. It stuck with Roy long after swallowing his first bite and dragged up uncomfortable memories of dental visits, drills, and irritated gums trickling blood down his throat. Just one more little unpleasantry in the world of unpleasantness that was Ishbal.
Even so, he tried to continue with his meal, knowing he’d be ragged on if he didn’t. Can’t stomach real battle, eh there, Flame Alchemist? He could practically hear them now, and it didn’t do much to help the burning, convulsive feeling in his throat.
He looked down at the food he was trying so valiantly to do more than pick at. Dry, grainy scrambled eggs rehydrated from powder that gritted between his teeth just like the omnipresent sand. Fatty breakfast bacon with that awful metallic-mineral aftertaste. He tried not to think any more about it, tried to stick with the dentist memories, which were unpleasant but bearable. But his mind wouldn’t rest so easy.
The tin taste reminded him of yesterday, his first day, of the smell/taste that had surrounded him when he’d turned his flame alchemy on the towering pile of dead Ishbalans. They’d gone up quickly, but not quickly enough. They’d been dehydrated by the desert sun, but not dehydrated enough. He’d turned his back on the destruction he’d caused, the destruction they called clean up, but he hadn't turned fast enough. He’d been scorched by the heat of his bonfire, surrounded by the smells of burning hair, frying fat, and the metallic, tinny essence of burning blood that he could taste before he smelled.
He chewed slowly, trying not to think of blood, or flesh, or burning. Or alchemy. Or the fact that he was twenty-two years old, but felt about seven since he’d barely woken up the night before in time to avoid pissing himself after an ungodly nightmare of fire and heat and boiling blood that had crawled over his flesh even after his waking, like a swarm of Ishbalan beetles. There’d been no sleep the rest of the night. No sleep at all.
He looked down at his breakfast. Inhaled the flat, metallic scent of the plate and the fatty, burned smell of the overcooked bacon. Slowly, he lowed it to the ground. Walked away from the mess tent. Found a relatively private latrine. And vomited until there was nothing inside him but sour spit.
Then he calmly turned back and returned to his rations, determined not to let the others know.
