#personally i think this fic is full of comfort for kimblee

[hirazuki]

Pressure Game [snippet]

Solf J. Kimblee & Edward Elric | T | Briggs Arc | canon divergent | angst, hurt no comfort | one-shot

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2nd November 1914 Baschool

The world is wiped away by white, as the snowstorm that has been threatening all day fully descends upon Baschool.

Glass panes rattle and ice starts to spread its long, thin fingers across them, temperature dropping ever lower, and the only indication that night has fallen is the brief glimpse of desaturated darkness in between the bursts of snowflakes that are blowing by, vicious and endless.

Solf has long since abandoned his vigil at the window – the weather won’t be changing anytime soon.

Major Miles has finally sat down too, though he’s at the other end of the room, near the curtained doorway that leads to an adjacent chamber where some of the men from Briggs are – as far away as possible, while still keeping him in his sights. Alphonse Elric is in there as well, sitting on the floor; the cold, presumably, does not affect him.

Everyone else is scattered around on chairs and boxes and crates, any surface as long as it’s elevated from the freezing concrete, using their current predicament as a chance to rest; half-dozing, with that alert idleness that anyone who has served in the military possesses. Even the rather murderous tension that has been directed towards him and his men from the northern contingent of their party has settled down to a simmer – he has been careful to encourage this by keeping his hands gloved. There’s no sound other than the howling of the wind and the stubborn durability of the building and the occasional shift of fabric or wood when someone readjusts themselves.

Still, they’re giving him a wide berth. There are only two tables in this room and the one he’s at is empty, save for himself and the sole person who has been the subject of his silent attention for the past ten minutes.

“What?” Edward Elric eventually demands, after an incredibly entertaining display of quietly mounting irritation. Just like his alchemy and his sense of style, the single-word question is loud and flashy.

Solf blinks at him.

“I was just thinking that you surprised me, earlier,” he offers honestly, his own voice soft and level. “Given your determination to not kill, I had expected you to react a little differently to the deaths you caused – or does it only upset you when your participation is more direct?”

Predictably, and painfully so, this strikes a nerve with his grudging conversation partner. “How the hell was it my fault, when it was Scar who blew up the building?!”

Solf raises a finger to his lips and pointedly looks at the nearest sleepers, a pair of Briggs soldiers who are slumped against each other, rifles cradled and eyes closed: Do keep it down, Edward. Some people are trying to rest. 

The boy scowls and drops back down into his seat, grumbling under his breath – colorful curses, no doubt – as he sullenly slides the chair back to where it had been before his outburst knocked it away.

“Come now, Fullmetal, let’s not pretend,” he says, in as inoffensive and reasonable a tone as he can manage. A bit of strategic deception is one thing, but it’s a fine line between that and hypocrisy; and, while he’ll periodically engage in the former himself, he has absolutely no tolerance for the latter. “Scar taking Winry hostage is an awfully convenient way to get her away from me.”

“Have you lost your mind, Kimblee?” Fullmetal hisses, at least trying to temper his volume this time, though not relinquishing any of his anger. Anger at what, precisely, is unclear – at Solf? At Scar? At the situation in general, or at himself? All of the above to some degree, probably. “How does this benefit me, exactly? She’s still a hostage! And, unlike before, now I don’t even know where she is!”

“And why would Scar take a hostage?” he replies smoothly. “That’s a rather drastic change from his mode of operation thus far, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,” the boy snipes and sinks into his large red coat, crossing his legs at his ankles and his arms over his chest. “Shows what you know.”

Solf tries his best to suppress a smirk – for all that Edward Elric may be a state alchemist, and a genius of one at that, he is still just a child; and he is petulant and quick to accuse others of ignorance, as most teenagers are. He loses the fight, but as he is in no mood to come to blows with the boy, he raises the thermos that Heinkel gave him, hiding his mouth behind its lip and savoring the trail of hot liquid that pours down his throat. (Where the man found rose-infused black tea in this abandoned building, he has no idea – chimeras can be wondrously useful creatures.) 

“But you’re right,” Fullmetal continues, unexpectedly. “Up until recently – hell, even just last week – it would have been different.”

It’s a blatant attempt at misdirection, if Solf’s ever seen one – the verbal equivalent of throwing dirt in someone’s eyes. He is tempted, for a moment, to point it out and chide the lack of finesse it’s done with, but he does confess curiosity. And he did ask, after all – it would be terribly rude not to hear the boy out. There will be time enough for Scar and for Fullmetal’s little games tomorrow, weather permitting, so he allows the conversation to circle back to the beginning, undisturbed except for his polite prodding of it. 

“What changed?”

“A talk I had with someone,” Fullmetal says. “She gave me some advice.”

“Oh?” he prompts. 

“‘Don’t avert your eyes from death and never forget the people you’ve killed, because they’ll never forget you,’” the boy recites, staring down fiercely at the wood of the table in front of him. “I’ve never killed anyone myself, but there have been plenty of people who have died because they got mixed up with me. And I think that – ”

Fullmetal is still talking but Solf has stopped listening because, suddenly, the thermos of hot tea that he is holding is a tin cup of the world’s most tragic coffee, thin and lukewarm – dreadful at the time, perfect in his dreams – and the blizzard outside that is shaking the windows is a sandstorm tearing through the desert and beating at their tents, and, if he closes his eyes, he can practically taste the heat and the dry air, tinged with sun and blood and gunfire; smell the smoke, rising from the most recent district to fall to his and the Flame Alchemist’s hands. 

There’s only one place where Edward Elric could have heard those words – ‘she,’ he’d said – and the thought tickles him, thoroughly. 

Did the Hawk’s Eye internalize his words that much, that now she is passing them onto others? He’d thought that he’d seen something, hard and unyielding and glinting like gunmetal, behind those watery, wide brown eyes with their whites flashing, looking like they belonged on the wrong end of a firearm – but people disappoint all too often, so he hadn’t placed much hope in her learning from the experience. 

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Solf loves being wrong – in the proper circumstances, of course; because, when done properly, it’s refreshing and fascinating, leading to new doors, new experiences, new possibilities within the margins of this world. This instance, in particular, is so singularly delicious, that he completely forgets his earlier admonition of Fullmetal and, somewhat loudly, begins to laugh.

“What’s so funny, you bastard?”

“Oh, no, no,” he rushes to reassure him, breathlessly, “I’m not laughing at you or your friend, and certainly not at the sentiment – believe me.”

Fullmetal's frown deepens, and he looks like he's doing anything but.

Solf bites down on the mirth that seeks to overwhelm him, but although he can rein in his laughter and steady his voice, he is helpless about the sharp grin that has spread across his face, its corners cutting high into his cheeks.

“I simply find myself amused at life,” he explains cheerfully. “It can really be so peculiar, can’t it?”