Fic - "A King of Infinite Space"
Mar. 18th, 2009 10:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rajTitle: "A King of Infinite Space"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Character/Fandom: Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 606
Warnings: Post-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 February of last year. Prompt was "guilty." Found it in my WIPs folder. Realizing I write way too many short, angsty fics about Roy's Ishbal issues...
He and Roy never spoke about the nightmares. They existed somewhere in the void between them, where each of them stored memories, unpleasantness, and hurt. Not exactly hidden but never fully acknowledged, like so much dust swept under a rug.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from seeing them. He always woke when Roy began to shift in his sleep. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t force his mind to stay steeped in oblivious slumber no matter how much better it would’ve been if he could. He could do nothing but lie quietly on his side in the dark and watch the nightmare creep in.
The peacefulness of Roy’s face would break into slight frowns and tremors as he shifted back and forth. Sometimes he made low, anguished whimpering sounds that cut through the hum of silence and made Jean’s hackles rise. From there these tremors deepened, knitting Roy’s bows, carving his face with thick lines of worry, fear, and finally pain. He moved faster, sometimes fast enough to make the bedsprings whisper, and the whimpers deepened to moans and soft, slurry sounds of negation.
Sometimes he spoke whole words—‘fire,’ ‘kids,’ ‘sand,’ ‘blood,’— and once a whole string of them, so clear Jean thought he’d awoken; “My fingers hurt. I’m going to vomit.” That time Jean almost reached for him. He went as far as letting his fingers graze the cotton collar of Roy’s pajama top before he pulled back.
In the end the moans and words would give way back to whimpers. Worse still, sometimes they faded to weeping. The soft, wet sounds of tears and terror made Jean’s stomach curl, made him grit his teeth and wince until Roy would spring awake, fingers clutching and bunching and trying to snap. Roy would look around, and try to quell his panting. He’d turn to Jean with a kind of desperation, making sure the younger man was still asleep, that he hadn’t seen him, and only looked away when he’d seen Jean’s closed eyes, because Jean always closed his eyes when Roy woke up, usually just in time to avoid catching Roy’s glance. He never wanted to, always told himself that this time he wouldn’t, this time he’d let on he’d seen and offer some solace, and then somehow he did it just the same.
Assured, Roy would put his head into his hands and breath a shaky, shameful sigh. If he’d wept, he’d brush the wetness from his face with angry fists, as though the feel of the moisture sickened him, and let his breathing slow. When he forced himself calm, he slid out of bed and through the hall door, while Jean lay still and fought the urge to follow and try to comfort.
Sometimes it took hours, sometimes as little as fifteen minutes, and Roy would come back and ease himself into bed. He always looked over at Jean when he did so, lonely longing naked on his face. Once he’d moved closer, the bedsprings creaking under him, and reached halfway out, almost touching Jean’s shoulder. Jean had been ready to move, to open his arms and pull Roy close and kiss the awful expression of guilty terror from Roy’s face, but at the last second Roy had pulled back, rolled away, and settled himself at the furthest edge of the bed.
Always after all was done, they would lay still and wakeful, the gap between them oddly solid, waiting for morning when they could both pretend it never happened.
O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
-Hamlet, II,ii
Author:
raja815Character/Fandom: Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 606
Warnings: Post-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 February of last year. Prompt was "guilty." Found it in my WIPs folder. Realizing I write way too many short, angsty fics about Roy's Ishbal issues...He and Roy never spoke about the nightmares. They existed somewhere in the void between them, where each of them stored memories, unpleasantness, and hurt. Not exactly hidden but never fully acknowledged, like so much dust swept under a rug.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from seeing them. He always woke when Roy began to shift in his sleep. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t force his mind to stay steeped in oblivious slumber no matter how much better it would’ve been if he could. He could do nothing but lie quietly on his side in the dark and watch the nightmare creep in.
The peacefulness of Roy’s face would break into slight frowns and tremors as he shifted back and forth. Sometimes he made low, anguished whimpering sounds that cut through the hum of silence and made Jean’s hackles rise. From there these tremors deepened, knitting Roy’s bows, carving his face with thick lines of worry, fear, and finally pain. He moved faster, sometimes fast enough to make the bedsprings whisper, and the whimpers deepened to moans and soft, slurry sounds of negation.
Sometimes he spoke whole words—‘fire,’ ‘kids,’ ‘sand,’ ‘blood,’— and once a whole string of them, so clear Jean thought he’d awoken; “My fingers hurt. I’m going to vomit.” That time Jean almost reached for him. He went as far as letting his fingers graze the cotton collar of Roy’s pajama top before he pulled back.
In the end the moans and words would give way back to whimpers. Worse still, sometimes they faded to weeping. The soft, wet sounds of tears and terror made Jean’s stomach curl, made him grit his teeth and wince until Roy would spring awake, fingers clutching and bunching and trying to snap. Roy would look around, and try to quell his panting. He’d turn to Jean with a kind of desperation, making sure the younger man was still asleep, that he hadn’t seen him, and only looked away when he’d seen Jean’s closed eyes, because Jean always closed his eyes when Roy woke up, usually just in time to avoid catching Roy’s glance. He never wanted to, always told himself that this time he wouldn’t, this time he’d let on he’d seen and offer some solace, and then somehow he did it just the same.
Assured, Roy would put his head into his hands and breath a shaky, shameful sigh. If he’d wept, he’d brush the wetness from his face with angry fists, as though the feel of the moisture sickened him, and let his breathing slow. When he forced himself calm, he slid out of bed and through the hall door, while Jean lay still and fought the urge to follow and try to comfort.
Sometimes it took hours, sometimes as little as fifteen minutes, and Roy would come back and ease himself into bed. He always looked over at Jean when he did so, lonely longing naked on his face. Once he’d moved closer, the bedsprings creaking under him, and reached halfway out, almost touching Jean’s shoulder. Jean had been ready to move, to open his arms and pull Roy close and kiss the awful expression of guilty terror from Roy’s face, but at the last second Roy had pulled back, rolled away, and settled himself at the furthest edge of the bed.
Always after all was done, they would lay still and wakeful, the gap between them oddly solid, waiting for morning when they could both pretend it never happened.
O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
-Hamlet, II,ii
