FMA fanfic!
This is some FullMetal Alchemist fanfic, which will only make sense if you happen to have read The Alter!Series. I'm submitting these stories for inclusion over there. So anyway, here's a bit of fic starring hime1999's fan character Ichiro Masuta, who is the our-world counterpart of the canon character Roy Mustang.
Ichiro Masuta was homesick. Being a stranger in a new culture wasn't new to him, but knowing that the strange would eventually become familiar, and that new friends would fill the void left by the old, didn't make it any easier to be the outsider.
And outsider he certainly was. He knew very well that no one meant to exclude him, but the people around him had known each other for years, were tied together by experiences he didn't share. The situation was made all the more awkward by the fact that so many of the faces were those of people he counted among his friends-in another world. Riza Hawkeye wore the face of gentle, proper Elizabeth Hughes. But in this world, it was Gracia who married a Hughes named Maes, and had a daughter named Elysia, not Alice. Riza Hawkeye was a highly-competent career military officer, and she served...well, Masuta was finally getting used to Roy Mustang as a real, living person, rather than his own pen name.
Worst of all, though, was the fact that this world's Hughes was dead.
Mr. Elric meant well. He was trying to share his friends, and what there was of his family, with Masuta. Ichiro appreciated the thought. But he really didn't have much to say. So, after thanking Gracia for a meal that really was tasty and filling, Masuta retreated to a chair in the corner of the living room with his notebook. He turned to a fresh page, doodled a little with the pencil he carried everywhere. Absorbed in his sketching, he didn't notice the approach of another person until it was too late.
“Who's that?” Alice's young, eager voice startled Masuta enough to make him drop the pencil into his lap. But no-it wasn't Alice. This child's name was Elysia. Masuta looked at her in surprise for a moment, then retrieved the pencil and looked at his drawing.
“This is my father.” He traced the line of the burly man's back with a fingertip. “He is practicing his fighting.”
“Why is he wearing a skirt?”
Masuta allowed himself a smile. “It is the custom for men in my homeland.”
The child looked solemnly at the sketch for a moment. “So if men wear skirts, do women wear pants all the time?”
Masuta shook his head. “Women wear a kimono.” He flipped through his notebook, extracted the one picture he had of his parents. “Look, here is my mother. She is wearing a woman's kimono, and my father and I are wearing men's kimono and hakama.”
Elysia had the bold confidence of females of this world. She climbed into Masuta's lap as though she owned it, and made herself comfortable against his chest, scrutinizing the picture with a child's earnest interest. “She's pretty.” She twisted around to search Masuta's face for a moment, then she turned back to the picture. “You look a lot like her. Your eyes are the same shape and your nose is just like hers.”
“Ah-thank you.” Masuta conducted a quick search of the living room for an adult to appeal to for help, but they were all engaged in close conversation.
“Everyone says I look just like my mama, too,” Elysia said. “I wish I looked more like Daddy. Then maybe Mama wouldn't miss him so much.”
Masuta wasn't sure what to say to that. Finally he settled for, “I'm sure you make her feel better.”
The little girl traced the edges of the photo with her fingers. “I try to, but I miss Daddy, too.” She sounded much older than she had just a moment ago. She held the photo a moment longer, then looked beyond it to the pages of Masuta's notebook. “Is this writing? I've never seen these letters before. What do they mean?”
Ichiro gratefully accepted the shift in the child's interest, and fished his pencil up from the depth of the chair cushions.
The impromptu lesson in hiragana had an unexpected effect. The following morning, Masuta was folding the laundry when the phone rang. Since the General had indicated he'd appreciate it if his houseguests took phone messages while they were in residence, Masuta went to the noisy instrument and answered.
“General Mustang's residence.”
“Ah-Mr. Masuta?” It was Gracia Hughes.
“Yes, Mrs. Hughes? What can I do for you?”
“It's-Mr. Masuta, I wanted to thank you for entertaining Elysia last night.” The woman sounded a bit distracted.
“It was no trouble,” Masuta said politely. “She is a bright and attentive child.” And one prone to impertinent questions, but that seemed to be a common fault in this world.
“Thank you.” Gracia sounded flustered.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Hughes?”
“I-I don't know. Mr. Masuta, Elysia came to me this morning and said, 'Mama-san, may I please have a kimono?' I told her I would have to think about it. She's taking her nap now. Mr. Masuta, what is a 'kimono'?”
Masuta burst out laughing.
Ichiro Masuta was homesick. Being a stranger in a new culture wasn't new to him, but knowing that the strange would eventually become familiar, and that new friends would fill the void left by the old, didn't make it any easier to be the outsider.
And outsider he certainly was. He knew very well that no one meant to exclude him, but the people around him had known each other for years, were tied together by experiences he didn't share. The situation was made all the more awkward by the fact that so many of the faces were those of people he counted among his friends-in another world. Riza Hawkeye wore the face of gentle, proper Elizabeth Hughes. But in this world, it was Gracia who married a Hughes named Maes, and had a daughter named Elysia, not Alice. Riza Hawkeye was a highly-competent career military officer, and she served...well, Masuta was finally getting used to Roy Mustang as a real, living person, rather than his own pen name.
Worst of all, though, was the fact that this world's Hughes was dead.
Mr. Elric meant well. He was trying to share his friends, and what there was of his family, with Masuta. Ichiro appreciated the thought. But he really didn't have much to say. So, after thanking Gracia for a meal that really was tasty and filling, Masuta retreated to a chair in the corner of the living room with his notebook. He turned to a fresh page, doodled a little with the pencil he carried everywhere. Absorbed in his sketching, he didn't notice the approach of another person until it was too late.
“Who's that?” Alice's young, eager voice startled Masuta enough to make him drop the pencil into his lap. But no-it wasn't Alice. This child's name was Elysia. Masuta looked at her in surprise for a moment, then retrieved the pencil and looked at his drawing.
“This is my father.” He traced the line of the burly man's back with a fingertip. “He is practicing his fighting.”
“Why is he wearing a skirt?”
Masuta allowed himself a smile. “It is the custom for men in my homeland.”
The child looked solemnly at the sketch for a moment. “So if men wear skirts, do women wear pants all the time?”
Masuta shook his head. “Women wear a kimono.” He flipped through his notebook, extracted the one picture he had of his parents. “Look, here is my mother. She is wearing a woman's kimono, and my father and I are wearing men's kimono and hakama.”
Elysia had the bold confidence of females of this world. She climbed into Masuta's lap as though she owned it, and made herself comfortable against his chest, scrutinizing the picture with a child's earnest interest. “She's pretty.” She twisted around to search Masuta's face for a moment, then she turned back to the picture. “You look a lot like her. Your eyes are the same shape and your nose is just like hers.”
“Ah-thank you.” Masuta conducted a quick search of the living room for an adult to appeal to for help, but they were all engaged in close conversation.
“Everyone says I look just like my mama, too,” Elysia said. “I wish I looked more like Daddy. Then maybe Mama wouldn't miss him so much.”
Masuta wasn't sure what to say to that. Finally he settled for, “I'm sure you make her feel better.”
The little girl traced the edges of the photo with her fingers. “I try to, but I miss Daddy, too.” She sounded much older than she had just a moment ago. She held the photo a moment longer, then looked beyond it to the pages of Masuta's notebook. “Is this writing? I've never seen these letters before. What do they mean?”
Ichiro gratefully accepted the shift in the child's interest, and fished his pencil up from the depth of the chair cushions.
The impromptu lesson in hiragana had an unexpected effect. The following morning, Masuta was folding the laundry when the phone rang. Since the General had indicated he'd appreciate it if his houseguests took phone messages while they were in residence, Masuta went to the noisy instrument and answered.
“General Mustang's residence.”
“Ah-Mr. Masuta?” It was Gracia Hughes.
“Yes, Mrs. Hughes? What can I do for you?”
“It's-Mr. Masuta, I wanted to thank you for entertaining Elysia last night.” The woman sounded a bit distracted.
“It was no trouble,” Masuta said politely. “She is a bright and attentive child.” And one prone to impertinent questions, but that seemed to be a common fault in this world.
“Thank you.” Gracia sounded flustered.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Hughes?”
“I-I don't know. Mr. Masuta, Elysia came to me this morning and said, 'Mama-san, may I please have a kimono?' I told her I would have to think about it. She's taking her nap now. Mr. Masuta, what is a 'kimono'?”
Masuta burst out laughing.