FMA AU, "Rip-Tide," Danny/Al, R
A story to go along with a drawing I submitted to Octopus/Squid Men Galore on y!gallery. You can see the drawing here (y!gal) or here (dA). The art is worksafe and brainsafe (mostly), but be warned, the fic is dark, disturbing, and beyond that it's AU and it's depressing.
Blame my boss and my boss's boss. They made me morbid.
Rip-Tide
by Mistr3ss Quickly
"It's just a couple of days," Danny had said, reassuring himself just as much as he was his lover. "I haven't seen my cousins in years, it'd look bad if I didn't go."
Just a couple of days. A couple of days of his cousins badgering him to play video games with them, then teasing him when he lost after just a few minutes. A couple of days of his aunt shaking her head sadly, each time a girl walked by and all Danny noticed was the guy walking beside her. A couple of days of no phone and no email, nothing but a postcard Danny had purchased the first evening to send to his boyfriend, then not had the guts to write because the guy at the postcard shop was looking at him funny.
The sea was his only consolation, the roaring power of the water and the soothing warmth of the sand, the smell of sunscreen and the feel of the breeze against his skin. He stood and let the foam tickle his legs, creeping up towards his swimtrunks as the tide came in; he lay on his towel and watched the horizon as the tide went out.
I wish Al were here with me, he thought, watching a couple walk by, hand-in-hand. He'd love this.
~*~*~*~
On the last day, his cousins began badgering him for venturing no further than thigh-deep into the waves.
"Chicken," said the eldest, three years Danny's junior.
Danny ignored him.
"Wiener," said the eldest's sister, five and a half years Danny's junior.
Danny ignored her, too.
The youngest of the three bounced up and down. "Does that make him a chicken wiener?" he wanted to know.
The other two ignored him, but the insult stuck.
"Chicken wiener, chicken wiener!" they chanted, dancing about with their arms folded, flapping like a chicken's wings. "Danny is a chicken wiener!"
Danny sighed. Al loves chicken hotdogs, he thought, mournfully. He'd probably make a joke about it, get them to shut up.
But no joke came to mind. Even when his cousins had lost interest in teasing him, scampering off to entertain themselves elsewhere, Danny worked on a joke, on some witty comeback.
Anything.
He looked to the sea. Nothing. Nothing but waves and whitewater and sand. Power like Danny had never, ever had.
Hypnotically tempting. Danny stood and brushed the sand from his trunks, then stripped off his t-shirt and trotted down the beach to the water's edge, shivering a bit as the surf lapped at his sun-warmed legs.
The sand pulled itself away, beneath his feet, on each withdrawal, then stung as the waves returned it with twice the force with which it had drawn it away. Danny watched the waves break and crash, felt the surf against his bare belly, tiny rocks and coarse sand tickling his bellybutton. When the water rose high enough, he drew a deep breath and dived, gliding beneath the churning water, out into the calm beyond the breakers.
Deep, cool water. Motion all around him, when he surfaced. An intoxicating sense of achievement as he looked back at the shore, to his lonely rumpled t-shirt on his faded beach-towel, the promise of looking his cousin in the eye, later and saying, "Ha! Betcha didn't know chickens could swim!"
He tired quickly, paddling about. A good kind of tired, a burn in every muscle in his arms and legs, in the muscles of his back and chest.
But when he tried to return to the shore, swimming towards the glare of the sun on the white sand and the blur of his towel, he found that he could not, the shore receding farther and farther away with each stroke of his arms, each kick of his legs in the deep water. His mind fed him a word, an image: Rip-tide. Bloated bodies of drowning victims. Sucked in. Sucked down.
Then there was too much: too much panic, too much water, too much sound, the waves crashing endlessly so far away, while other waves lapped at his ears.
Then there wasn't enough: not enough energy left in his legs for him to kick, not enough air in his lungs for him to shout, for him to draw breath as he went under.
And then, there was nothing.
Silence and darkness and pressure, daylight and the last shreds of breath flowing upwards and away, disappearing. He could feel the cold calm that comes with drowning, the bitter salt of it numbing his tongue, stinging his eyes.
Touch, around his middle, arms both gentle and firm pulling him down. Stronger than the tide itself, but not nearly so frightening. Comforting in the way another's touch can be only when terror has taken firm hold of the mind.
"Relax," said a voice, close to his ear. "Relax. Do not fight it, do not fight it."
"Relax, you are mine."
~*~*~*~
Danny was never seen again.
~*~
Blame my boss and my boss's boss. They made me morbid.
Rip-Tide
by Mistr3ss Quickly
"It's just a couple of days," Danny had said, reassuring himself just as much as he was his lover. "I haven't seen my cousins in years, it'd look bad if I didn't go."
Just a couple of days. A couple of days of his cousins badgering him to play video games with them, then teasing him when he lost after just a few minutes. A couple of days of his aunt shaking her head sadly, each time a girl walked by and all Danny noticed was the guy walking beside her. A couple of days of no phone and no email, nothing but a postcard Danny had purchased the first evening to send to his boyfriend, then not had the guts to write because the guy at the postcard shop was looking at him funny.
The sea was his only consolation, the roaring power of the water and the soothing warmth of the sand, the smell of sunscreen and the feel of the breeze against his skin. He stood and let the foam tickle his legs, creeping up towards his swimtrunks as the tide came in; he lay on his towel and watched the horizon as the tide went out.
I wish Al were here with me, he thought, watching a couple walk by, hand-in-hand. He'd love this.
~*~*~*~
On the last day, his cousins began badgering him for venturing no further than thigh-deep into the waves.
"Chicken," said the eldest, three years Danny's junior.
Danny ignored him.
"Wiener," said the eldest's sister, five and a half years Danny's junior.
Danny ignored her, too.
The youngest of the three bounced up and down. "Does that make him a chicken wiener?" he wanted to know.
The other two ignored him, but the insult stuck.
"Chicken wiener, chicken wiener!" they chanted, dancing about with their arms folded, flapping like a chicken's wings. "Danny is a chicken wiener!"
Danny sighed. Al loves chicken hotdogs, he thought, mournfully. He'd probably make a joke about it, get them to shut up.
But no joke came to mind. Even when his cousins had lost interest in teasing him, scampering off to entertain themselves elsewhere, Danny worked on a joke, on some witty comeback.
Anything.
He looked to the sea. Nothing. Nothing but waves and whitewater and sand. Power like Danny had never, ever had.
Hypnotically tempting. Danny stood and brushed the sand from his trunks, then stripped off his t-shirt and trotted down the beach to the water's edge, shivering a bit as the surf lapped at his sun-warmed legs.
The sand pulled itself away, beneath his feet, on each withdrawal, then stung as the waves returned it with twice the force with which it had drawn it away. Danny watched the waves break and crash, felt the surf against his bare belly, tiny rocks and coarse sand tickling his bellybutton. When the water rose high enough, he drew a deep breath and dived, gliding beneath the churning water, out into the calm beyond the breakers.
Deep, cool water. Motion all around him, when he surfaced. An intoxicating sense of achievement as he looked back at the shore, to his lonely rumpled t-shirt on his faded beach-towel, the promise of looking his cousin in the eye, later and saying, "Ha! Betcha didn't know chickens could swim!"
He tired quickly, paddling about. A good kind of tired, a burn in every muscle in his arms and legs, in the muscles of his back and chest.
But when he tried to return to the shore, swimming towards the glare of the sun on the white sand and the blur of his towel, he found that he could not, the shore receding farther and farther away with each stroke of his arms, each kick of his legs in the deep water. His mind fed him a word, an image: Rip-tide. Bloated bodies of drowning victims. Sucked in. Sucked down.
Then there was too much: too much panic, too much water, too much sound, the waves crashing endlessly so far away, while other waves lapped at his ears.
Then there wasn't enough: not enough energy left in his legs for him to kick, not enough air in his lungs for him to shout, for him to draw breath as he went under.
And then, there was nothing.
Silence and darkness and pressure, daylight and the last shreds of breath flowing upwards and away, disappearing. He could feel the cold calm that comes with drowning, the bitter salt of it numbing his tongue, stinging his eyes.
Touch, around his middle, arms both gentle and firm pulling him down. Stronger than the tide itself, but not nearly so frightening. Comforting in the way another's touch can be only when terror has taken firm hold of the mind.
"Relax," said a voice, close to his ear. "Relax. Do not fight it, do not fight it."
"Relax, you are mine."
~*~*~*~
Danny was never seen again.
~*~