Full Metal Alchemist, "Conscious Quiet," Danny/Al, PG-13
Oh my God you people need to not bunny me!
No, I'm kidding. It's wonderful when the response I get on a story prompts more story, because I love writing and writing this was oddly cathartic.
This is for all of you who struggled with Danny's apparent apathy and Al's apparent bitchiness in the last fic, in particular lmd_84 and sepsku. I hope it spells some things out, and raises questions about others. ♥
[Edit]: This is NOT part of the Empty Nest timeline. We'll call it the "closet" timeline, eh?
Conscious Quiet
by Mistr3ss Quickly
Some nights you just know nothing's going to go quite your way.
Tonight's going to be one of those nights, I'm pretty sure.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Al doesn't even look up at me when I come into the room. He's sitting on the bed-our bed-with his shoulders hunched up under his ears, looking for all the world like a pouting child, even though he's still dressed like an adult, the tip of his tie rumpled against his belly.
Definitely going to be one of those nights. Knew it would be, the minute I answered the phone.
As though he can read my mind, Al says: "Who was on the phone?"
"My aunt," I tell him. Then, because I've got two of them: "The one in East City."
Not that it matters. They're both my dad's sisters, and both of them-either of them-would skin me alive if they knew I was living with a man. That I'm the kind of guy who gets along better living with another guy than I ever could living with a woman.
Neither of us has said anything, but we both know that's what's going on. I told Aunt Jean that Al was my roommate when Al was within earshot, after all, and Al hates that worse than almost anything.
I know that. Al knows that I know that.
I wait.
"Oh," says Al.
He wiggles over to the side, wants me to sit down with him. He'll never admit it, but stuff like this makes him feel insecure, makes him feel plainly awful, and when it happens, he needs my reassurance. Craves it.
So I give it. I sit down with him, close enough that our legs touch, my arm brushing his back when I reach out to brace myself against the mattress.
"What'd she want?" he says, still looking pointedly away.
The Elric Tough-Guy Act. I'd laugh if it weren't so very pathetic, so very sad.
"Just calling to check up on me, I guess. Wanted to know how work's going, stuff like that."
It's true. That's all she wanted. He came home before she had a chance to ask me about the girl I made up, the last time she called. A girl named Suzie, whom I claimed I was dating. Claimed I met at the deli.
Al doesn't need to know about that. Now or ever.
He sighs, though, like he can read my mind, and slumps, pressing his back fully against my arm, his leg pressed more firmly against my hip. He's warm; I idly wonder if he might be getting sick, make mental note to take his temperature, later.
"You should just tell her you're dating me," he says.
Petulant. Anyone else might call it whiny, but I know Al better than that. Al doesn't whine, not about important stuff.
(I tell him that no, he can't go transmute his brother's hair into chicken wire after Edward's done something awful to Roy, whom Al adores, and Al will whine and make threats about transmuting my hair into chicken wire, instead. But that's not real whining, either, because it's cute and usually leads to a friendly wrestling match that never ends with very many clothes left on either of us, but always gets Al to laugh, leaves him in a much better mood.)
Tonight, he's not cute. Tonight, he's hurting.
I didn't do this. I'm not the one making him hurt. No matter what he-or I, for that matter-might think. I didn't do this.
It's not my fault. Out of my control.
"I can't, Al," I tell him, for the millionth time. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I just can't."
And I am sorry. Sorry that it hurts Al, sorry that it's my stupid family hurting him. But I can't change that, I can't do anything about that, and Al's brilliant, Al understands. Al turns and cuddles up to me, rests his head in the curve of my shoulder like he did the first time he broke down and cried because his brother was missing and he was scared, stuck in a big city with no one he recognized and a whole bunch of people who recognized him. I wrap my arms around him and hold him, feel him shaking, his muscles tense.
I lift my hands to rub his back, to get some of that tension out of him, but he speaks before I have a chance to lower my hands.
"Must be dark in that closet of yours, Danny," he says, low and nasty, the tone he never uses with me, never uses with anyone but his brother, because Edward's the only one tough enough to not care when he uses it. "I'll have to get a flashlight, just to find you."
I don't rub his back.
I don't answer.
There's nothing for me to say, anyway.
~*~*~*~
"Hello?"
"Hi, Aunt Jean. It's Daniel. I'm sorry for ending yesterday's call so abruptly."
"Oh, that's quite all right, dear. I understand."
"Thank you. Hey, there's something I need to tell you. You know my roommate, the Alchemist?"
"The one who's related to the Full Metal Alchemist? Yes."
"Alphonse, yeah. Well, I lied to you about him. He's not my roommate, he's my boyfriend. He has been for three years. There is no Suzie from the deli, I lied about her, too. I'm gay, Aunt Jean, and Al is my boyfriend. I love him."
Then a click, the dead crackle of the line. The sound of the receiver coming to rest in the cradle. Al's voice, saying something about how he's proud of me, or how it's better now. Something condescending and shallow, not honest like most of the stuff Al says.
A moment. Probably four or five minutes, if we were to time it.
Then the phone would ring, and it would be my mother's voice, my father's if I'm really unlucky. Maybe even my other aunt, my father's younger sister, depending on who Aunt Jean calls first.
I don't open my eyes when Al whispers to me-lying in bed, aching even more in my chest than I do between my legs and feeling all kinds of stuff that you don't want to feel about yourself- that now I know how he feels.
I don't tell him that he's wrong, that he could never feel like this, not with Edward and Russel just ten minutes away, devoted to him and to loving him for who he is.
I don't tell him that I'm doing what's best for both of us, doing what I know will let us be together, let him be my sweetheart and me be his lover, embarrassed about it though I may be.
I concentrate on breathing slowly, pretending to be asleep as I play the horror of my own imagination over in my mind, again and again, because it won't stop and I know better than to even try to force it.
I don't think this is what either of us wants, sweetheart.
You don't have any idea how I feel.
~*~
Again, crossposted to fma_yaoi and al_danny. Come join the latter of the two?
No, I'm kidding. It's wonderful when the response I get on a story prompts more story, because I love writing and writing this was oddly cathartic.
This is for all of you who struggled with Danny's apparent apathy and Al's apparent bitchiness in the last fic, in particular lmd_84 and sepsku. I hope it spells some things out, and raises questions about others. ♥
[Edit]: This is NOT part of the Empty Nest timeline. We'll call it the "closet" timeline, eh?
Conscious Quiet
by Mistr3ss Quickly
Some nights you just know nothing's going to go quite your way.
Tonight's going to be one of those nights, I'm pretty sure.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Al doesn't even look up at me when I come into the room. He's sitting on the bed-our bed-with his shoulders hunched up under his ears, looking for all the world like a pouting child, even though he's still dressed like an adult, the tip of his tie rumpled against his belly.
Definitely going to be one of those nights. Knew it would be, the minute I answered the phone.
As though he can read my mind, Al says: "Who was on the phone?"
"My aunt," I tell him. Then, because I've got two of them: "The one in East City."
Not that it matters. They're both my dad's sisters, and both of them-either of them-would skin me alive if they knew I was living with a man. That I'm the kind of guy who gets along better living with another guy than I ever could living with a woman.
Neither of us has said anything, but we both know that's what's going on. I told Aunt Jean that Al was my roommate when Al was within earshot, after all, and Al hates that worse than almost anything.
I know that. Al knows that I know that.
I wait.
"Oh," says Al.
He wiggles over to the side, wants me to sit down with him. He'll never admit it, but stuff like this makes him feel insecure, makes him feel plainly awful, and when it happens, he needs my reassurance. Craves it.
So I give it. I sit down with him, close enough that our legs touch, my arm brushing his back when I reach out to brace myself against the mattress.
"What'd she want?" he says, still looking pointedly away.
The Elric Tough-Guy Act. I'd laugh if it weren't so very pathetic, so very sad.
"Just calling to check up on me, I guess. Wanted to know how work's going, stuff like that."
It's true. That's all she wanted. He came home before she had a chance to ask me about the girl I made up, the last time she called. A girl named Suzie, whom I claimed I was dating. Claimed I met at the deli.
Al doesn't need to know about that. Now or ever.
He sighs, though, like he can read my mind, and slumps, pressing his back fully against my arm, his leg pressed more firmly against my hip. He's warm; I idly wonder if he might be getting sick, make mental note to take his temperature, later.
"You should just tell her you're dating me," he says.
Petulant. Anyone else might call it whiny, but I know Al better than that. Al doesn't whine, not about important stuff.
(I tell him that no, he can't go transmute his brother's hair into chicken wire after Edward's done something awful to Roy, whom Al adores, and Al will whine and make threats about transmuting my hair into chicken wire, instead. But that's not real whining, either, because it's cute and usually leads to a friendly wrestling match that never ends with very many clothes left on either of us, but always gets Al to laugh, leaves him in a much better mood.)
Tonight, he's not cute. Tonight, he's hurting.
I didn't do this. I'm not the one making him hurt. No matter what he-or I, for that matter-might think. I didn't do this.
It's not my fault. Out of my control.
"I can't, Al," I tell him, for the millionth time. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I just can't."
And I am sorry. Sorry that it hurts Al, sorry that it's my stupid family hurting him. But I can't change that, I can't do anything about that, and Al's brilliant, Al understands. Al turns and cuddles up to me, rests his head in the curve of my shoulder like he did the first time he broke down and cried because his brother was missing and he was scared, stuck in a big city with no one he recognized and a whole bunch of people who recognized him. I wrap my arms around him and hold him, feel him shaking, his muscles tense.
I lift my hands to rub his back, to get some of that tension out of him, but he speaks before I have a chance to lower my hands.
"Must be dark in that closet of yours, Danny," he says, low and nasty, the tone he never uses with me, never uses with anyone but his brother, because Edward's the only one tough enough to not care when he uses it. "I'll have to get a flashlight, just to find you."
I don't rub his back.
I don't answer.
There's nothing for me to say, anyway.
~*~*~*~
"Hello?"
"Hi, Aunt Jean. It's Daniel. I'm sorry for ending yesterday's call so abruptly."
"Oh, that's quite all right, dear. I understand."
"Thank you. Hey, there's something I need to tell you. You know my roommate, the Alchemist?"
"The one who's related to the Full Metal Alchemist? Yes."
"Alphonse, yeah. Well, I lied to you about him. He's not my roommate, he's my boyfriend. He has been for three years. There is no Suzie from the deli, I lied about her, too. I'm gay, Aunt Jean, and Al is my boyfriend. I love him."
Then a click, the dead crackle of the line. The sound of the receiver coming to rest in the cradle. Al's voice, saying something about how he's proud of me, or how it's better now. Something condescending and shallow, not honest like most of the stuff Al says.
A moment. Probably four or five minutes, if we were to time it.
Then the phone would ring, and it would be my mother's voice, my father's if I'm really unlucky. Maybe even my other aunt, my father's younger sister, depending on who Aunt Jean calls first.
I don't open my eyes when Al whispers to me-lying in bed, aching even more in my chest than I do between my legs and feeling all kinds of stuff that you don't want to feel about yourself- that now I know how he feels.
I don't tell him that he's wrong, that he could never feel like this, not with Edward and Russel just ten minutes away, devoted to him and to loving him for who he is.
I don't tell him that I'm doing what's best for both of us, doing what I know will let us be together, let him be my sweetheart and me be his lover, embarrassed about it though I may be.
I concentrate on breathing slowly, pretending to be asleep as I play the horror of my own imagination over in my mind, again and again, because it won't stop and I know better than to even try to force it.
I don't think this is what either of us wants, sweetheart.
You don't have any idea how I feel.
~*~
Again, crossposted to fma_yaoi and al_danny. Come join the latter of the two?