Kimbley was grateful that it wasn't raining.
It would have been far too cliche for a young man like him, and it wasn't as if he needed anything else to go completely and utterly wrong that day. And, as difficult as it was for him to believe that things could get worse, he wasn't the sort of pathetic sap who was stupid enough to think that they couldn't.
Still docked out in his military blues, he'd skipped out on work-- not that anyone would miss him, and the feeling was mutual-- he'd been wandering the streets again, unable to completely vent his frustration and emotional confusion on innocent citizens. Still, tempered and unpredictable as Kimbley was, he had his reasons-- or a reason.
It's name was Major Frank Archer.
The mere thought of the man, who, tragically, was probably feeling as miserable as Kimbley himself was, brought a narrow-eyed glare to the alchemist's face. He wanted sincerely to be able to believe that Archer could just die, and he could care less. His attatchment to his fellow officer was growing more and more what he percieved to be a vulernability. Something that could be taken and used against him, as he had seen that day in the hospital. He needed something stable to grasp onto while his mind sorted itself gradually out, or he'd go utterly insane. As if he wasn't already.
But, the only stable thing... Archer. He felt as if that was a long time gone.