Fullmetal Alchemist, "Everyone Together, All Alone," Nash/Belsio, R
I worked on this story during one of the lowest emotional periods I've had in a long, long time. Finished it up on what I think is probably (hopefully) the upswing of it. It's probably not my best fiction, but I like it, nonetheless.
Fulfills 20_inkspots prompt #10, "Emotions Arise," although I was shooting for another prompt entirely when I started out. Actually, I was shooting for an entirely different fic altogether, but anyone who knows how my fiction works knows that I have no control over what the muses do and do not do. They write this stuff, I just sit here and type for them. *weeps*
Anyway. Onwards.
Our contributions for 20_inkspots, in chronological order:
1895: "Holding Back" (#2)
1906: "Dawn for a Dying Man" (#16)
1910: "In the Heat of the Moment" (#1)
1910: "The Pain of Holding On" (#19)
1910: "A Breath of Fresh Air" (#5)
1913: "Strays, part 1" (#3)
1913: "Strays, part 2" (#17)
1913: "Strays, part 3" (#12)
1914: "Everyone Together, All Alone" (#10)
1914: "Sins of the Father" (#14)
1915: "Ask" (#20)
1915: "Keeping Secrets" (#6)
1915: "The Father I Never Was" (#9)
1915: "Timeless" (#18)
1915: "Balance" (#11)
1917: "A Father's Pride and Joy" (#15)
1918: "The Unexpected Gift of Fatherhood (#7)
1918: "Adjustment" (#4)
1918: "Gold of the Earth" (#8)
Will be updated as more stories are added. ^_^
Everyone Together, All Alone
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John has been alone before.
He's no stranger to loneliness, to the sort of solitude that echoes around and inside him, more loudly than his footsteps on the time-worn floorboards of the home that's seen more than he can ever imagine, more loudly than the sound of his coffee mug tapping against the bowl of the sink when he rinses it out, his presence small and insignificant in the space of the kitchen.
He knows the feel of rising alone in the morning, of working in the orchard with nothing but the sound of the trees and his own breath to keep him company.
Knows well the silence of sitting by the fire at night, waiting for the day's labor and his body's age to weigh upon him heavily enough that he can sleep when he lies down, alone on the cool sheets that cover his mattress.
For the first time in more years than John cares to count, the loneliness bothers him.
Distracts him. Pains him.
He rises in the morning with the sun, watching Nash rise as well and yawn, still half-asleep as they share a bristly kiss. Dresses alone while Nash crosses the hall to wake his children, makes coffee while Nash fixes oatmeal and shouts at Russel for picking on his brother and at Fletcher for whining enough that Russel continues to bully him. Sits at the table and watches Nash yawn and do his best to wake up, never a morning person, watches Russel and Fletcher eat their breakfasts with the enthusiasm of teenagers growing like the weeds John battles daily in his orchard.
Nash leans on him, but doesn't speak to him. The boys glance at him, but know better than to talk with their mouths full, lest their father scold them for having no manners at the table.
After breakfast, Fletcher escapes washing the dishes by dashing outdoors, his older brother hot on his heels and Nash following just behind, struggling with the skirt he wears over his trousers, the bonnet he wears over his short hair, as he calls to his boys that they should at least brush their teeth after eating. John watches them go and rises, his chair squeaking loudly in the silence that settles in their absence. He collects the bowls and cups and spoons and carries them to the sink, drinking the last swallow of Nash's coffee, even though it's too bitter for his tastes, because he knows Nash won't be back in to drink it himself and it seems a pity to waste good coffee, especially first thing in the morning.
He washes the dishes and puts them on the rack to dry. Brushes his teeth and pulls on his shoes, closing the door behind himself with a snap that sounds far louder than he feels it should.
He can hear voices in the orchard. He goes instead to the toolshed, the door swinging closed behind him, muffling the voices as he collects the baskets stacked in the corner.
"Rotten egg," says Nash, a reference to their childhood, when John joins them beneath the trees.
"What's that mean, Daddy?" Fletcher wants to know.
John sets down the baskets and sets to work, harvesting first the lemons that have ripened to the point that they'll be good for juicing, while Nash explains to Fletcher the phrase that was nothing but common sense, when he and John were Fletcher's age. Russel appears from the rows of trees to the west and ruffles his brother's hair, which makes Fletcher squeal and bat at him.
"You knew that, Fletch," says Russel. "We used to say that when we'd race each other up in the mansi-um. We used to do that, remember?"
Fletcher wrinkles his nose. "Oh," he says. "Yeah."
Awkward silence follows. Always does, when someone slips up and mentions the mansion on the hill that houses memories for all of them, save for John, a shared past of pain that John can't touch, can't relate to beyond the comfort he's given Nash when the memories come too close to the forefront of the man's thoughts, comfort Nash now gives his children when they suffer the same. John moves methodically, plucking lemons from the branches of his trees and setting them in the basket, his back aching a bit from the constant, repetitive motion, emotions rising in him as the illusion solidifies that he's alone, again, working amidst the imagined voices of those he wished were near but were, in reality, far away.
When he pauses and glances back, wanting reassurance that he is, indeed, not alone, the boys are gone. There's nothing reassuring there for him, nothing but the sparse grass beneath the trees, the few dead leaves scattered across it.
Nash is gone, too, but he's close, at least. The hem of his pants and the worn soles of his shoes are visible at the foot of the large tree that's had troubles with parasites, lately, his elbow visible just beyond the gnarled branches, his profile visible through the shifting leaves. He stands guard, watching his children play, silent and proud and content. Probably smiling, John thinks.
The thought reassures him enough that he can return to his work, silent and alone.
~*~*~*~
At bedtime, John sinks into bed and glares at the ceiling, feeling old and grumpy and lonely as he listens to Nash bid his children goodnight, laughing when Fletcher recites a children's rhyme about bugs living in the mattress.
When Nash joins him in bed, John feigns sleep.
"It's not working, John," Nash informs him. "I'm not an idiot, I know you don't sleep with your mouth closed."
John glares at him. Has to open his eyes to do so, which is similar to admitting defeat, but it's worth it. "I'm tired," he says.
"Mmm," says Nash. "Are you coming down with something? You were acting strangely today, like you weren't well."
He looks worried. Blue eyes gone grey in the darkness of the bedroom, sallow skin wrinkled at his brow in an expression of concern. Warm hand slipping under John's nightshirt to rub soothing circles on John's belly.
"Perhaps," says John.
"You should rest tomorrow," Nash tells him. "The boys and I can handle bringing in the yield."
Unbidden, jealousy wells up inside John's chest, sudden and hot and terrible. Jealousy of Nash, of the smile the man wears only around the children. Jealousy of the presence of Nash and Russel and Fletcher, out in the orchard, out amongst his trees. Jealousy of the warmth and comfort and rightness Nash feels in the home John suddenly feels is nothing but a house, far more terribly than he felt so when he lived there alone, regretting the past less than he finds he now resents the present.
"I'll be fine," he says, turning away from his lover. "Please don't worry."
Behind him, Nash snorts, warm breath washing over the skin at the nape of John's neck, exposed where his nightshirt doesn't cover him.
"That's funny, coming from the man who's worried himself to distraction over me for the past three years," Nash says. "I think, if I want to worry over you a little, that's my right."
"Mmm," says John, trying not to think about the days when Nash was so ill that death seemed to lurk around the very corners of his being, trying even harder not to think back on the days when Nash was still weak enough to need him, yet strong enough that John could take pleasure in being needed.
Guilt and fear and anger and guilty pleasure twist and war for dominance in his mind. He shudders, closing his eyes.
"John?"
"I'm tired," John says. "That's all."
Nash sighs and slips his arm around his lover's belly, spooned warm against John's back. "If you say so," he says. "'Night, John."
John laces their fingers together. "Goodnight."
~*~*~*~
Three hours pass before John wakes, his stomach clenched from a nightmare and his brow sweaty, his heart pounding hard enough that he's dizzy when he sits up, disoriented and confused. In the darkness, the illusion of spiders clings to the walls of his bedroom, thousands of spiders crawling on the walls, the floor, clinging to the curtains, the sides of his dresser.
Nash touches him, squeezes him firmly on the thigh. Speaks his name, deeper and rougher than Nash's voice normally sounds, but familiar enough that John can focus on it, can shake the dream, looking away from the shifting shadows and look at Nash, instead.
"Bad dream," he says, when Nash asks if he's all right. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"'S okay," says Nash, around a yawn. "Want to tell me what you dreamed?"
John frowns and lies back down, wrapping his arms around his lover. Nash's chest and arms are cool where the blankets have slipped, leaving him exposed to the night are, but his hands are warm, fingers tickling John's skin where he touches him, stroking soothingly up and down John's side.
"Spiders," John tells him. "I dreamed there were spiders in the room. All over it."
He doesn't mention the body of Clarence Mugear, rotting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Doesn't mention its mouth opening, spilling spiders by the thousands as it screamed for Russel and Fletcher and Nash to return to it. Doesn't mention his own body's refusal to move as he stood and watched the boys and their father obey the corpse's beckoning, the spiders covering them before his very eyes, devouring them.
"Mmm," says Nash. "I'd call that a night-terror. Used to have those when we were younger and camped out in the summer, remember?"
The memory is soothing, to John, makes him smile. "Yes," he says. "You used to sleep in my sleeping-bag because of it."
Nash hums softly. "It was a good habit to get into," he says.
The memory shifts, the best friend John played with as a child changing into the lanky, awkward teenager John fell in love with as a young man, Nash's grin awkward and shy as he lay beneath John's weight in the sweaty warmth of the sleeping bag. A thrill trickles up John's spine, emotions and desire twisting lower in his gut at the memory of making love for the first time in that sleeping bag, the memory of fear and pain and passion and want as Nash took him, breathlessly asking if it hurt, fucking him hard enough that John doubted it would have mattered if he'd confessed that it had.
John nods. "Indeed," he says.
His lover's hand drifts lower, palming him through his shorts, but he doesn't encourage the man to do anything beyond fondling him. It's good enough, he decides, to lie in bed and feel Nash's touch and taste Nash's kisses, listening to Nash's voice as they reminisce about the past.
"-nothing like that, in Central," he vaguely registers Nash saying, as sleep begins to overtake him. "No-one like you, in Central. I missed you so much, John. Didn't know a person could feel as lonely as I was, without you."
He tightens his arms around his lover and moves his mouth, but instead of I missed you too, he hears himself say I love you.
Nash sighs and kisses him on the throat. "Love you too."
~*~*~*~
The following morning, John rises with his lover, watching the sunlight reflect in the graying hairs of Nash's stubble as the man yawns, still half-asleep. He kisses Nash's lips and dresses in the same shirt and trousers he wore the day before, making mental note to do the laundry the following morning.
He nods to Russel in greeting when the older teen trudges out of the bedroom across the hall, looking grumpy. Speaks to Fletcher when the boy greets him, barreling down the hall to tackle his brother with a good morning hug that John suspects is more an attempt to annoy Russel than to greet him.
Nash rolls his eyes as he passes by, separating his children before the fight can escalate into anything serious, both boys in time-out as he makes oatmeal, nudging John with his hip as John pours coffee for him.
"It's too early for this," Nash grumbles, flopping down into his chair at the table.
John settles next to him and doesn't speak.
The boys eat their breakfasts in silence, Russel's glare drooping into something akin to that of a teenager moving on auto-pilot, three bites into the meal. Fletcher glances from his brother to his father and back again, then grins at John, cheeks flushing red when John smiles back. He finishes his meal first and dashes out of the kitchen without asking to be excused, his brother calling him a twerp as he pushes his chair back and follows, both he and his brother barefoot as they disappear out of the house and up into the orchard.
"Way too early for this," says Nash, taking one last gulp of coffee before rising, as well, pulling on his skirt and bonnet as he follows his children outside.
John joins them, half an hour later, the breakfast dishes washed and his face clean-shaven, the sun risen fully above the mountains. He finds Nash sitting beneath one of the younger trees at the edge of the orchard, supervising as Russel picks lemons and hands them down to Fletcher, who arranges them in the basket by his feet.
They've finished two trees already, if the baskets beside Nash are any indication. Nearly finished with the tree they're working on, too, Russel's brow beaded with sweat, Fletcher's cheeks flushed.
"I told them you weren't feeling well," Nash says, rising. "Russel said he thought you looked pale, and Fletcher wanted me to tell you to go back to bed, but I told them I'd already tried to get you to rest and hadn't been successful." He glances at John sidelong, nudges the man's hip with the back of his hand. "They decided helping out with the crop would be the next best thing. Wouldn't let me help them, either."
John raises an eyebrow at him, then looks back at the boys. Russel steps down from the ladder and moves the full basket of lemons closer to the tree's trunk, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He glares at his father, then at John.
"We've got it, me and Fletcher," he says. "You two sit down."
Then he turns his back to them and moves the ladder to the next tree, Fletcher following behind him like an adoring puppy, an empty basket in his hands, his knees bumping the underside as he walks.
"I see," says John.
Nash sighs and sits back down, legs folded pretzel-style before him, terribly un-ladylike. He leans against John's shoulder when John sits down beside him, resting one hand on John's knee.
"I say we let them wear themselves out," he says, yawning, "then go help them."
"Mmm," says John.
"'Sides, it's kinda nice to just sit out here," Nash says. "With you, anyway. I was lonely, sitting out here by myself you know, slowpoke."
John snorts and kisses the top of his lover's bonnet, annoyed but knowing better from years of experience than to rise to his lover's baiting. He laces their fingers together atop his knee, instead, and watches Russel smack his brother for something, Fletcher retaliating with a threat of I'll tell Dad if you hit me again.
Whatever irritation he may have felt towards his lover melts into something else, something warm beneath his breastbone. He smiles and squeezes Nash's hand, his lover answering him with a quiet snore, leaning heavily against him.
Alone with his thoughts, John finds himself-for the first time in years-to be at peace.
Fulfills 20_inkspots prompt #10, "Emotions Arise," although I was shooting for another prompt entirely when I started out. Actually, I was shooting for an entirely different fic altogether, but anyone who knows how my fiction works knows that I have no control over what the muses do and do not do. They write this stuff, I just sit here and type for them. *weeps*
Anyway. Onwards.
Our contributions for 20_inkspots, in chronological order:
1895: "Holding Back" (#2)
1906: "Dawn for a Dying Man" (#16)
1910: "In the Heat of the Moment" (#1)
1910: "The Pain of Holding On" (#19)
1910: "A Breath of Fresh Air" (#5)
1913: "Strays, part 1" (#3)
1913: "Strays, part 2" (#17)
1913: "Strays, part 3" (#12)
1914: "Everyone Together, All Alone" (#10)
1914: "Sins of the Father" (#14)
1915: "Ask" (#20)
1915: "Keeping Secrets" (#6)
1915: "The Father I Never Was" (#9)
1915: "Timeless" (#18)
1915: "Balance" (#11)
1917: "A Father's Pride and Joy" (#15)
1918: "The Unexpected Gift of Fatherhood (#7)
1918: "Adjustment" (#4)
1918: "Gold of the Earth" (#8)
Will be updated as more stories are added. ^_^
Everyone Together, All Alone
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John has been alone before.
He's no stranger to loneliness, to the sort of solitude that echoes around and inside him, more loudly than his footsteps on the time-worn floorboards of the home that's seen more than he can ever imagine, more loudly than the sound of his coffee mug tapping against the bowl of the sink when he rinses it out, his presence small and insignificant in the space of the kitchen.
He knows the feel of rising alone in the morning, of working in the orchard with nothing but the sound of the trees and his own breath to keep him company.
Knows well the silence of sitting by the fire at night, waiting for the day's labor and his body's age to weigh upon him heavily enough that he can sleep when he lies down, alone on the cool sheets that cover his mattress.
For the first time in more years than John cares to count, the loneliness bothers him.
Distracts him. Pains him.
He rises in the morning with the sun, watching Nash rise as well and yawn, still half-asleep as they share a bristly kiss. Dresses alone while Nash crosses the hall to wake his children, makes coffee while Nash fixes oatmeal and shouts at Russel for picking on his brother and at Fletcher for whining enough that Russel continues to bully him. Sits at the table and watches Nash yawn and do his best to wake up, never a morning person, watches Russel and Fletcher eat their breakfasts with the enthusiasm of teenagers growing like the weeds John battles daily in his orchard.
Nash leans on him, but doesn't speak to him. The boys glance at him, but know better than to talk with their mouths full, lest their father scold them for having no manners at the table.
After breakfast, Fletcher escapes washing the dishes by dashing outdoors, his older brother hot on his heels and Nash following just behind, struggling with the skirt he wears over his trousers, the bonnet he wears over his short hair, as he calls to his boys that they should at least brush their teeth after eating. John watches them go and rises, his chair squeaking loudly in the silence that settles in their absence. He collects the bowls and cups and spoons and carries them to the sink, drinking the last swallow of Nash's coffee, even though it's too bitter for his tastes, because he knows Nash won't be back in to drink it himself and it seems a pity to waste good coffee, especially first thing in the morning.
He washes the dishes and puts them on the rack to dry. Brushes his teeth and pulls on his shoes, closing the door behind himself with a snap that sounds far louder than he feels it should.
He can hear voices in the orchard. He goes instead to the toolshed, the door swinging closed behind him, muffling the voices as he collects the baskets stacked in the corner.
"Rotten egg," says Nash, a reference to their childhood, when John joins them beneath the trees.
"What's that mean, Daddy?" Fletcher wants to know.
John sets down the baskets and sets to work, harvesting first the lemons that have ripened to the point that they'll be good for juicing, while Nash explains to Fletcher the phrase that was nothing but common sense, when he and John were Fletcher's age. Russel appears from the rows of trees to the west and ruffles his brother's hair, which makes Fletcher squeal and bat at him.
"You knew that, Fletch," says Russel. "We used to say that when we'd race each other up in the mansi-um. We used to do that, remember?"
Fletcher wrinkles his nose. "Oh," he says. "Yeah."
Awkward silence follows. Always does, when someone slips up and mentions the mansion on the hill that houses memories for all of them, save for John, a shared past of pain that John can't touch, can't relate to beyond the comfort he's given Nash when the memories come too close to the forefront of the man's thoughts, comfort Nash now gives his children when they suffer the same. John moves methodically, plucking lemons from the branches of his trees and setting them in the basket, his back aching a bit from the constant, repetitive motion, emotions rising in him as the illusion solidifies that he's alone, again, working amidst the imagined voices of those he wished were near but were, in reality, far away.
When he pauses and glances back, wanting reassurance that he is, indeed, not alone, the boys are gone. There's nothing reassuring there for him, nothing but the sparse grass beneath the trees, the few dead leaves scattered across it.
Nash is gone, too, but he's close, at least. The hem of his pants and the worn soles of his shoes are visible at the foot of the large tree that's had troubles with parasites, lately, his elbow visible just beyond the gnarled branches, his profile visible through the shifting leaves. He stands guard, watching his children play, silent and proud and content. Probably smiling, John thinks.
The thought reassures him enough that he can return to his work, silent and alone.
~*~*~*~
At bedtime, John sinks into bed and glares at the ceiling, feeling old and grumpy and lonely as he listens to Nash bid his children goodnight, laughing when Fletcher recites a children's rhyme about bugs living in the mattress.
When Nash joins him in bed, John feigns sleep.
"It's not working, John," Nash informs him. "I'm not an idiot, I know you don't sleep with your mouth closed."
John glares at him. Has to open his eyes to do so, which is similar to admitting defeat, but it's worth it. "I'm tired," he says.
"Mmm," says Nash. "Are you coming down with something? You were acting strangely today, like you weren't well."
He looks worried. Blue eyes gone grey in the darkness of the bedroom, sallow skin wrinkled at his brow in an expression of concern. Warm hand slipping under John's nightshirt to rub soothing circles on John's belly.
"Perhaps," says John.
"You should rest tomorrow," Nash tells him. "The boys and I can handle bringing in the yield."
Unbidden, jealousy wells up inside John's chest, sudden and hot and terrible. Jealousy of Nash, of the smile the man wears only around the children. Jealousy of the presence of Nash and Russel and Fletcher, out in the orchard, out amongst his trees. Jealousy of the warmth and comfort and rightness Nash feels in the home John suddenly feels is nothing but a house, far more terribly than he felt so when he lived there alone, regretting the past less than he finds he now resents the present.
"I'll be fine," he says, turning away from his lover. "Please don't worry."
Behind him, Nash snorts, warm breath washing over the skin at the nape of John's neck, exposed where his nightshirt doesn't cover him.
"That's funny, coming from the man who's worried himself to distraction over me for the past three years," Nash says. "I think, if I want to worry over you a little, that's my right."
"Mmm," says John, trying not to think about the days when Nash was so ill that death seemed to lurk around the very corners of his being, trying even harder not to think back on the days when Nash was still weak enough to need him, yet strong enough that John could take pleasure in being needed.
Guilt and fear and anger and guilty pleasure twist and war for dominance in his mind. He shudders, closing his eyes.
"John?"
"I'm tired," John says. "That's all."
Nash sighs and slips his arm around his lover's belly, spooned warm against John's back. "If you say so," he says. "'Night, John."
John laces their fingers together. "Goodnight."
~*~*~*~
Three hours pass before John wakes, his stomach clenched from a nightmare and his brow sweaty, his heart pounding hard enough that he's dizzy when he sits up, disoriented and confused. In the darkness, the illusion of spiders clings to the walls of his bedroom, thousands of spiders crawling on the walls, the floor, clinging to the curtains, the sides of his dresser.
Nash touches him, squeezes him firmly on the thigh. Speaks his name, deeper and rougher than Nash's voice normally sounds, but familiar enough that John can focus on it, can shake the dream, looking away from the shifting shadows and look at Nash, instead.
"Bad dream," he says, when Nash asks if he's all right. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"'S okay," says Nash, around a yawn. "Want to tell me what you dreamed?"
John frowns and lies back down, wrapping his arms around his lover. Nash's chest and arms are cool where the blankets have slipped, leaving him exposed to the night are, but his hands are warm, fingers tickling John's skin where he touches him, stroking soothingly up and down John's side.
"Spiders," John tells him. "I dreamed there were spiders in the room. All over it."
He doesn't mention the body of Clarence Mugear, rotting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Doesn't mention its mouth opening, spilling spiders by the thousands as it screamed for Russel and Fletcher and Nash to return to it. Doesn't mention his own body's refusal to move as he stood and watched the boys and their father obey the corpse's beckoning, the spiders covering them before his very eyes, devouring them.
"Mmm," says Nash. "I'd call that a night-terror. Used to have those when we were younger and camped out in the summer, remember?"
The memory is soothing, to John, makes him smile. "Yes," he says. "You used to sleep in my sleeping-bag because of it."
Nash hums softly. "It was a good habit to get into," he says.
The memory shifts, the best friend John played with as a child changing into the lanky, awkward teenager John fell in love with as a young man, Nash's grin awkward and shy as he lay beneath John's weight in the sweaty warmth of the sleeping bag. A thrill trickles up John's spine, emotions and desire twisting lower in his gut at the memory of making love for the first time in that sleeping bag, the memory of fear and pain and passion and want as Nash took him, breathlessly asking if it hurt, fucking him hard enough that John doubted it would have mattered if he'd confessed that it had.
John nods. "Indeed," he says.
His lover's hand drifts lower, palming him through his shorts, but he doesn't encourage the man to do anything beyond fondling him. It's good enough, he decides, to lie in bed and feel Nash's touch and taste Nash's kisses, listening to Nash's voice as they reminisce about the past.
"-nothing like that, in Central," he vaguely registers Nash saying, as sleep begins to overtake him. "No-one like you, in Central. I missed you so much, John. Didn't know a person could feel as lonely as I was, without you."
He tightens his arms around his lover and moves his mouth, but instead of I missed you too, he hears himself say I love you.
Nash sighs and kisses him on the throat. "Love you too."
~*~*~*~
The following morning, John rises with his lover, watching the sunlight reflect in the graying hairs of Nash's stubble as the man yawns, still half-asleep. He kisses Nash's lips and dresses in the same shirt and trousers he wore the day before, making mental note to do the laundry the following morning.
He nods to Russel in greeting when the older teen trudges out of the bedroom across the hall, looking grumpy. Speaks to Fletcher when the boy greets him, barreling down the hall to tackle his brother with a good morning hug that John suspects is more an attempt to annoy Russel than to greet him.
Nash rolls his eyes as he passes by, separating his children before the fight can escalate into anything serious, both boys in time-out as he makes oatmeal, nudging John with his hip as John pours coffee for him.
"It's too early for this," Nash grumbles, flopping down into his chair at the table.
John settles next to him and doesn't speak.
The boys eat their breakfasts in silence, Russel's glare drooping into something akin to that of a teenager moving on auto-pilot, three bites into the meal. Fletcher glances from his brother to his father and back again, then grins at John, cheeks flushing red when John smiles back. He finishes his meal first and dashes out of the kitchen without asking to be excused, his brother calling him a twerp as he pushes his chair back and follows, both he and his brother barefoot as they disappear out of the house and up into the orchard.
"Way too early for this," says Nash, taking one last gulp of coffee before rising, as well, pulling on his skirt and bonnet as he follows his children outside.
John joins them, half an hour later, the breakfast dishes washed and his face clean-shaven, the sun risen fully above the mountains. He finds Nash sitting beneath one of the younger trees at the edge of the orchard, supervising as Russel picks lemons and hands them down to Fletcher, who arranges them in the basket by his feet.
They've finished two trees already, if the baskets beside Nash are any indication. Nearly finished with the tree they're working on, too, Russel's brow beaded with sweat, Fletcher's cheeks flushed.
"I told them you weren't feeling well," Nash says, rising. "Russel said he thought you looked pale, and Fletcher wanted me to tell you to go back to bed, but I told them I'd already tried to get you to rest and hadn't been successful." He glances at John sidelong, nudges the man's hip with the back of his hand. "They decided helping out with the crop would be the next best thing. Wouldn't let me help them, either."
John raises an eyebrow at him, then looks back at the boys. Russel steps down from the ladder and moves the full basket of lemons closer to the tree's trunk, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He glares at his father, then at John.
"We've got it, me and Fletcher," he says. "You two sit down."
Then he turns his back to them and moves the ladder to the next tree, Fletcher following behind him like an adoring puppy, an empty basket in his hands, his knees bumping the underside as he walks.
"I see," says John.
Nash sighs and sits back down, legs folded pretzel-style before him, terribly un-ladylike. He leans against John's shoulder when John sits down beside him, resting one hand on John's knee.
"I say we let them wear themselves out," he says, yawning, "then go help them."
"Mmm," says John.
"'Sides, it's kinda nice to just sit out here," Nash says. "With you, anyway. I was lonely, sitting out here by myself you know, slowpoke."
John snorts and kisses the top of his lover's bonnet, annoyed but knowing better from years of experience than to rise to his lover's baiting. He laces their fingers together atop his knee, instead, and watches Russel smack his brother for something, Fletcher retaliating with a threat of I'll tell Dad if you hit me again.
Whatever irritation he may have felt towards his lover melts into something else, something warm beneath his breastbone. He smiles and squeezes Nash's hand, his lover answering him with a quiet snore, leaning heavily against him.
Alone with his thoughts, John finds himself-for the first time in years-to be at peace.