Fullmetal Alchemist, "Strays III," Nash/Belsio, R
Ah, the third installment of Strays that doesn't really want to be an installment of Strays, go figure. I don't care that it doesn't really fit, nothing in this entire timeline really fits, so here it is and I think you'll enjoy it so read it. It fulfills prompt #12, "Spinning," rather nicely, if you think the way I do about things.
This is the last of the stories I'm writing for 20_inkspots, for awhile. Interest in this project was slim to begin with and has waned to a critical point, so we'll let it sleep. If I come up with the other two prompts' fics, I'll certainly post them, but for now ...
Well. I enjoyed it. And really, that's all that really counts. Right?
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. ^_^
Strays
part iii
Whirlwinds and Stillness
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John has dreamed of this moment. Dreamed at night, sleeping with Nash in his arms. Dreamed during the day, lost in his thoughts out in the orchard.
He's dreamed tears and laughter and hugging and warmth and joy. He's dreamed anger and denial and fear and loss and pain. He's dreamed telling the children himself. He's dreamed the children stumbling across the truth. He's dreamed Nash insisting on telling them, the truth coming from the climax of an argument, the peak of Nash's anger.
Now that it's here, it's nothing like his dreams. It's faster, less controlled.
It's Nash following him into the bedroom, eyes squinting in the bright light of the overhead lamp. It's Russel and Fletcher seeing him from their seat on the bed, their eyes going wide with immediate recognition. It's Russel standing, Fletcher clinging to him, Nash whispering their names.
Daddy? Are you dead? Are you real?
It's Nash on his knees and Russel in his arms, Fletcher between them, sobbing. It's apologies and pain and why weren't you there, it's anger and grieving and I've missed you so much, do you have any idea how much we've missed you back.
John watches it all and keeps his distance, praying fervently that, from this dream, none of them will ever have to wake up.
~*~*~*~
Nash stays with his children until the sun's begun to rise over the mountains, the sky warming from black to steel, steel to purple. Fletcher falls asleep after only a few hours, curled up against his brother's belly like a kitten, whimpering quietly as he dreams. Only when Russel begins yawning, struggling to stay awake, does Nash rise, ignoring Russel's protests as he peels back the blankets on the bed.
"It's been a long day for you and your brother," he says, gently. "Come on, Russel. Go to sleep. We can talk more when you wake."
Russel frowns but doesn't argue, gathering Fletcher close as he lies down, the younger boy mumbling something incomprehensible and squirming a little before going still, breathing deep and even, once again. Nash tucks them in, kissing Fletcher on the top of the head and Russel on the forehead.
"Goodnight, Russel," he says.
"'Night, Dad," says Russel.
He watches his father turn to leave the room, sits up when Nash turns out the light.
"Dad?"
"Yes, Russel?"
Russel falters, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. "You'll still be here in the morning, won't you?"
Nash looks pained. "Yes," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
He watches from the doorway as Russel nods and lies back down, shushing Fletcher when the boy wakes enough to say his name. Watches until Russel's eyes close, the arm wrapped around his younger brother going slack, then closes the bedroom door, rubbing his eyes as he slinks across the hall to join his lover in bed.
~*~*~*~
John has imagined this discussion. Imagined it in the evenings, sitting by the fire with his lover's children sitting nearby. Imagined it in the mornings, stirring raisins into Fletcher's oatmeal and cinnamon into Russel's, leaving his own plain, the way he likes it.
He's imagined looks of surprise and laughter, Fletcher's little nose wrinkling up in confusion, Russel's eyebrows trying both to lift and furrow at the same time. He's imagined shock and embarrassment, Russel's jaw dropping, Fletcher's eyes going wide. He's imagined Nash sighing and blaming the whole thing on none other than John himself, imagined his own words of concession, admitting that, indeed, it was his idea to begin with.
The morning after is nothing like his imagination. It's slower, more natural.
It's Fletcher, asking innocently if his father will come out with them into the orchard to see the trick Russel taught him yesterday (hanging upside-down from a treebranch). It's Russel, brightening and looking at his father, his spoon halfway between his bowl and his mouth, forgotten. It's Nash, hesitating, glancing at John before sitting down. Nash clearing his throat.
Well, boys. That's complicated.
Why, Daddy? It's Mr. Belsio's orchard, it's safe.
It's Nash chuckling and rubbing his chin, motioning for John to join him at the table, Nash taking a deep breath and lacing his fingers with John's, not quite meeting his children's eyes as he begins to explain.
~*~*~*~
"That was you!" says Fletcher, once his father has gotten through the why and has moved on to explain the when of his life as John's woman. "The night Edward and Al left to go back to Central. We saw Mr. Belsio out with a woman, remember Brother? That was you, wasn't it, Daddy?"
Nash chuckles. "Yes, that was me," he said. "I was hoping to catch you and your brother at the station and take you home, but Sheriff Wilkinson got to you first."
Russel's staring at him. "That was you?" he says. "But ... but you ..." He blushes. "You really looked like a woman."
"Ah. Well, I suppose that's a good thing," says Nash. "Considering."
"Do you still dress up like a lady sometimes, Daddy?" Fletcher wants to know.
Nash nods. "Whenever I leave the house, yes. I don't think anyone would see me in the orchard, but Elisa still comes by, every so often, so it's best to do it, just as a precaution."
"Because you don't want Mr. Mugear to know you're alive," says Russel. "Right?"
Again, Nash nods. "Right," he says.
Fletcher's face falls. He chews at his lower lip, looks up uncertainly at his brother. Russel glances at him, then glares at the table.
"You don't need to, anymore," he says, quietly. "Mr. Mugear's dead, Dad. He's never going to know you're still alive."
~*~*~*~
John has dreaded this moment. Dreaded the apprehension, the fear in the boys' eyes, the fear Nash struggles so hard not to show. Dreaded the truth, the inescapable reality of deciding what to do next.
He's dreaded the tears and excuses and empty reassurances. Dreaded the unspoken words and half-hearted lies and the terror of the understanding that comes from surviving the kind of things Nash and his children have survived, together and alone. Dreaded the silence that he was certain would inevitably follow, the pain of waiting, each for someone else to break the quiet with words no one wanted to hear.
It's nothing like what he's dreaded. Not at all.
It's relief on Nash's face, relief that reaches his eyes, smoothes the creases around them. It's confusion, creasing Russel's fair features, tension in his thin shoulders. It's disbelief and something akin to joy, Russel's hand trembling as he tries to tuck his bangs behind his ear, a nervous habit.
We didn't kill him. I swear, it was an accident.
I know, son. It's okay, I know.
~*~*~*~
Nash excuses himself from the table before his boys have finished their breakfasts, his cheeks coloring just a bit as he explains that it takes him awhile to dress as a woman. Fletcher giggles and Russel frowns, John clearing his throat as he rises to follow Nash down the hall to the bedroom.
"They seem to be taking it well," he says, once the door is pushed close and Nash is undressing, pale skin prickling a little in the cool wash of air as John walks past him.
Nash nods. "They do," he says. "I'm so glad."
His eyes are bright, not quite teary but full of emotion John can't begin to read. He doesn't even try. Instead, he cups Nash's cheek in his palm and draws the man close, kissing him on the lips, tasting coffee when Nash exhales and kisses him back.
"It will be good to have you in the orchard, today," he says, pulling away and handing Nash the corset he purchased, years before, patient as Nash pulls it on and settles it over his ribs, pressed tight against his stomach. "I've missed your company."
Nash chuckles, the sound morphing into a whoosh as John begins lacing him up. "You've had the boys with you," he says. "Well, Russel anyway. Poor little Fletcher, we do need to get him to the doctor."
John frowns and pulls the laces tight around his lover's chest. "I've spoken with Dr. Oliver," he says. "He said to bring Fletcher and Russel both in for a check-up, thinking it would likely put them at ease if they could be together. I thought that was a wise suggestion."
"I agree," says Nash, a bit breathless. "That's ... well, that's just the kind of thing you'd expect from a small-town doctor, isn't it?"
"Yes," says John. "Yes, it is."
The strings pull loose from the tight cinch he's worked them into when Nash turns, suddenly, but it doesn't matter because Nash is kissing him, hard enough that their teeth click together, standing close enough that John can feel the other man stepping on his toes, teetering a bit as he moves, standing firmly on his own two feet.
"I'm glad I came home, John," Nash breathes, between kisses. "I'm glad my boys are here, that this is there home. I never thought it'd be like this, but ..."
John growls and kisses him, quiets him before Nash can make the knot tightening in his chest pull any harder, hurt any worse. Touches the pad of his thumb to the rough stubble Nash has yet to shave off, closes his eyes and drinks in the feel of his lover, the relief of Nash's passion, Nash's love.
Engrossed in one another, neither of them notices the bedroom door opening until it's too late to do anything but stop kissing each other and stare at the truth they'd not intended to tell the boys.
~*~*~*~
John never saw this one coming.
Never imagined, kissing Nash's lips when Nash was just barely strong enough to sit up and kiss him back, that one day, they might not be free to kiss each other in the privacy of the house.
Never imagined, kissing Nash's dripping wet skin, even after Nash was strong enough to bathe himself, that one day, there might be good reason for them to shower separately, rather than always together.
Never imagined, kissing Nash's stubble-rough chin as he helped Nash into the women's clothes he bought for the man, that it might matter that he was doing more than just helping Nash into his corset.
He registers Russel's eyes going huge and round, Russel's hand flying down to cover Fletcher's eyes far too late. Registers Nash tensing in his arms, speaking Russel's name. Registers Russel apologizing, the older boy turning to herd his brother out of the doorway and down the hall.
Notices, far too late, Nash's cock, stiff and tenting the front of the man's shorts, obvious and impossible to miss.
Oh god, they saw us, John.
Yes, Nash. I believe they did.
~*~*~*~
Nash fumbles into his clothing-his clothing, he won't admit that the dress, corset, and bonnet belong either to him or John-and hurries out of the room, calling his children's names as he goes, John following just behind him. He finds them in the sitting room, Fletcher on the sofa, eyes huge, Russel standing beside him, glaring.
"Um," he says.
"Wedidn'tseeanything," says Russel.
"Russel," says Nash.
"We'llknocknexttime," says Russel.
"Russel," says Nash.
Russel quiets, scowling at the arm of the sofa. John clears his throat, resting one hand at the small of Nash's back.
"Do we have to call you 'Mommy' now?" Fletcher wants to know, breaking the silence, looking curiously up at his father.
Nash's eyebrows lift. Russel's jaw drops. Fletcher makes a face.
"What? Do we? And is Mr. Belsio our daddy now?"
Nash shakes his head and ruffles his son's hair, looks up and catches Russel's eye, winking. "No, Fletcher," he says. "You don't have to call me that. I'm still your father. And John-"
He looks over his shoulder at his lover. John frowns at him.
"Just 'John' will be fine for now, I think," he says.
"But he kissed you, Daddy," says Fletcher. His brother swipes at him, but he dodges it, looking up at the older boy, eyes huge. "He did! You saw it too, Brother."
"Fletcher!" Russel hisses.
"Boys," says Nash, quieting whatever Fletcher opens his mouth to say. His children close their mouths and look up at him, Russel scowling, Fletcher pouting, scooting aside when Nash moves to sit beside him. "Yes, John kissed me, but that does not mean I'm your mother now. I could never fill your mother's shoes, wouldn't even want to try. I don't think I'd be very good at it."
Russel shakes his head. "No, you wouldn't," he says.
Fletcher nods. "But that's okay," he says. "I kinda like calling you 'Daddy' better, anyway."
~*~*~*~
Night falls, twenty-four hours alone having elapsed, and John sits up in bed, listening to the floorboards creak as Nash paces in the bathroom across the hall, brushing his teeth. The boys' room is quiet, no coughing or crying or whispering, but not silent, no tension or fear or secrets. Outside the window, there's no moon, thick clouds hanging low over the orchard, casting an even darkness across the trees.
He's not imagined this. Not dreamed or dreaded or thought of what might come after, when the whirlwind of truth and confusion has come to a stillness, a normalcy he's not had since his lover left him, years before. He chews absently at a hangnail and stares at the wall of the bedroom, his lover's dress and corset draped over the chair in the corner, mostly obscured beneath the trousers and shirt Nash wore while they prepared dinner, after sundown.
It's unnerving, he decides. Odd, not to know what will come next.
The sound of Nash closing the bedroom door and turning out the light draws him from his musings, the feel of Nash's hand on his chest and Nash's mouth against his own making him dizzy, his head spinning as Nash pulls him down and touches him, taking his breath away. Aroused and exhausted, he sinks into the feel of his lover, the oddly pleasant uncertainty of where Nash will touch him next, of where Nash's kisses will tickle him, warm and soft.
"We should sleep," he says, when Nash's hand falters, the man obviously struggling to stay awake.
"Mmm," says Nash. "Tomorrow, then."
He goes limp against John's side after only a handful of deep breaths, snoring softly into the fabric of John's sleeping shirt. John kisses him on the forehead and listens to him breathe, wakeful in the quiet of the house.
Tomorrow, he thinks.
Tomorrow, indeed.
This is the last of the stories I'm writing for 20_inkspots, for awhile. Interest in this project was slim to begin with and has waned to a critical point, so we'll let it sleep. If I come up with the other two prompts' fics, I'll certainly post them, but for now ...
Well. I enjoyed it. And really, that's all that really counts. Right?
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. ^_^
Strays
part iii
Whirlwinds and Stillness
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John has dreamed of this moment. Dreamed at night, sleeping with Nash in his arms. Dreamed during the day, lost in his thoughts out in the orchard.
He's dreamed tears and laughter and hugging and warmth and joy. He's dreamed anger and denial and fear and loss and pain. He's dreamed telling the children himself. He's dreamed the children stumbling across the truth. He's dreamed Nash insisting on telling them, the truth coming from the climax of an argument, the peak of Nash's anger.
Now that it's here, it's nothing like his dreams. It's faster, less controlled.
It's Nash following him into the bedroom, eyes squinting in the bright light of the overhead lamp. It's Russel and Fletcher seeing him from their seat on the bed, their eyes going wide with immediate recognition. It's Russel standing, Fletcher clinging to him, Nash whispering their names.
Daddy? Are you dead? Are you real?
It's Nash on his knees and Russel in his arms, Fletcher between them, sobbing. It's apologies and pain and why weren't you there, it's anger and grieving and I've missed you so much, do you have any idea how much we've missed you back.
John watches it all and keeps his distance, praying fervently that, from this dream, none of them will ever have to wake up.
~*~*~*~
Nash stays with his children until the sun's begun to rise over the mountains, the sky warming from black to steel, steel to purple. Fletcher falls asleep after only a few hours, curled up against his brother's belly like a kitten, whimpering quietly as he dreams. Only when Russel begins yawning, struggling to stay awake, does Nash rise, ignoring Russel's protests as he peels back the blankets on the bed.
"It's been a long day for you and your brother," he says, gently. "Come on, Russel. Go to sleep. We can talk more when you wake."
Russel frowns but doesn't argue, gathering Fletcher close as he lies down, the younger boy mumbling something incomprehensible and squirming a little before going still, breathing deep and even, once again. Nash tucks them in, kissing Fletcher on the top of the head and Russel on the forehead.
"Goodnight, Russel," he says.
"'Night, Dad," says Russel.
He watches his father turn to leave the room, sits up when Nash turns out the light.
"Dad?"
"Yes, Russel?"
Russel falters, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. "You'll still be here in the morning, won't you?"
Nash looks pained. "Yes," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
He watches from the doorway as Russel nods and lies back down, shushing Fletcher when the boy wakes enough to say his name. Watches until Russel's eyes close, the arm wrapped around his younger brother going slack, then closes the bedroom door, rubbing his eyes as he slinks across the hall to join his lover in bed.
~*~*~*~
John has imagined this discussion. Imagined it in the evenings, sitting by the fire with his lover's children sitting nearby. Imagined it in the mornings, stirring raisins into Fletcher's oatmeal and cinnamon into Russel's, leaving his own plain, the way he likes it.
He's imagined looks of surprise and laughter, Fletcher's little nose wrinkling up in confusion, Russel's eyebrows trying both to lift and furrow at the same time. He's imagined shock and embarrassment, Russel's jaw dropping, Fletcher's eyes going wide. He's imagined Nash sighing and blaming the whole thing on none other than John himself, imagined his own words of concession, admitting that, indeed, it was his idea to begin with.
The morning after is nothing like his imagination. It's slower, more natural.
It's Fletcher, asking innocently if his father will come out with them into the orchard to see the trick Russel taught him yesterday (hanging upside-down from a treebranch). It's Russel, brightening and looking at his father, his spoon halfway between his bowl and his mouth, forgotten. It's Nash, hesitating, glancing at John before sitting down. Nash clearing his throat.
Well, boys. That's complicated.
Why, Daddy? It's Mr. Belsio's orchard, it's safe.
It's Nash chuckling and rubbing his chin, motioning for John to join him at the table, Nash taking a deep breath and lacing his fingers with John's, not quite meeting his children's eyes as he begins to explain.
~*~*~*~
"That was you!" says Fletcher, once his father has gotten through the why and has moved on to explain the when of his life as John's woman. "The night Edward and Al left to go back to Central. We saw Mr. Belsio out with a woman, remember Brother? That was you, wasn't it, Daddy?"
Nash chuckles. "Yes, that was me," he said. "I was hoping to catch you and your brother at the station and take you home, but Sheriff Wilkinson got to you first."
Russel's staring at him. "That was you?" he says. "But ... but you ..." He blushes. "You really looked like a woman."
"Ah. Well, I suppose that's a good thing," says Nash. "Considering."
"Do you still dress up like a lady sometimes, Daddy?" Fletcher wants to know.
Nash nods. "Whenever I leave the house, yes. I don't think anyone would see me in the orchard, but Elisa still comes by, every so often, so it's best to do it, just as a precaution."
"Because you don't want Mr. Mugear to know you're alive," says Russel. "Right?"
Again, Nash nods. "Right," he says.
Fletcher's face falls. He chews at his lower lip, looks up uncertainly at his brother. Russel glances at him, then glares at the table.
"You don't need to, anymore," he says, quietly. "Mr. Mugear's dead, Dad. He's never going to know you're still alive."
~*~*~*~
John has dreaded this moment. Dreaded the apprehension, the fear in the boys' eyes, the fear Nash struggles so hard not to show. Dreaded the truth, the inescapable reality of deciding what to do next.
He's dreaded the tears and excuses and empty reassurances. Dreaded the unspoken words and half-hearted lies and the terror of the understanding that comes from surviving the kind of things Nash and his children have survived, together and alone. Dreaded the silence that he was certain would inevitably follow, the pain of waiting, each for someone else to break the quiet with words no one wanted to hear.
It's nothing like what he's dreaded. Not at all.
It's relief on Nash's face, relief that reaches his eyes, smoothes the creases around them. It's confusion, creasing Russel's fair features, tension in his thin shoulders. It's disbelief and something akin to joy, Russel's hand trembling as he tries to tuck his bangs behind his ear, a nervous habit.
We didn't kill him. I swear, it was an accident.
I know, son. It's okay, I know.
~*~*~*~
Nash excuses himself from the table before his boys have finished their breakfasts, his cheeks coloring just a bit as he explains that it takes him awhile to dress as a woman. Fletcher giggles and Russel frowns, John clearing his throat as he rises to follow Nash down the hall to the bedroom.
"They seem to be taking it well," he says, once the door is pushed close and Nash is undressing, pale skin prickling a little in the cool wash of air as John walks past him.
Nash nods. "They do," he says. "I'm so glad."
His eyes are bright, not quite teary but full of emotion John can't begin to read. He doesn't even try. Instead, he cups Nash's cheek in his palm and draws the man close, kissing him on the lips, tasting coffee when Nash exhales and kisses him back.
"It will be good to have you in the orchard, today," he says, pulling away and handing Nash the corset he purchased, years before, patient as Nash pulls it on and settles it over his ribs, pressed tight against his stomach. "I've missed your company."
Nash chuckles, the sound morphing into a whoosh as John begins lacing him up. "You've had the boys with you," he says. "Well, Russel anyway. Poor little Fletcher, we do need to get him to the doctor."
John frowns and pulls the laces tight around his lover's chest. "I've spoken with Dr. Oliver," he says. "He said to bring Fletcher and Russel both in for a check-up, thinking it would likely put them at ease if they could be together. I thought that was a wise suggestion."
"I agree," says Nash, a bit breathless. "That's ... well, that's just the kind of thing you'd expect from a small-town doctor, isn't it?"
"Yes," says John. "Yes, it is."
The strings pull loose from the tight cinch he's worked them into when Nash turns, suddenly, but it doesn't matter because Nash is kissing him, hard enough that their teeth click together, standing close enough that John can feel the other man stepping on his toes, teetering a bit as he moves, standing firmly on his own two feet.
"I'm glad I came home, John," Nash breathes, between kisses. "I'm glad my boys are here, that this is there home. I never thought it'd be like this, but ..."
John growls and kisses him, quiets him before Nash can make the knot tightening in his chest pull any harder, hurt any worse. Touches the pad of his thumb to the rough stubble Nash has yet to shave off, closes his eyes and drinks in the feel of his lover, the relief of Nash's passion, Nash's love.
Engrossed in one another, neither of them notices the bedroom door opening until it's too late to do anything but stop kissing each other and stare at the truth they'd not intended to tell the boys.
~*~*~*~
John never saw this one coming.
Never imagined, kissing Nash's lips when Nash was just barely strong enough to sit up and kiss him back, that one day, they might not be free to kiss each other in the privacy of the house.
Never imagined, kissing Nash's dripping wet skin, even after Nash was strong enough to bathe himself, that one day, there might be good reason for them to shower separately, rather than always together.
Never imagined, kissing Nash's stubble-rough chin as he helped Nash into the women's clothes he bought for the man, that it might matter that he was doing more than just helping Nash into his corset.
He registers Russel's eyes going huge and round, Russel's hand flying down to cover Fletcher's eyes far too late. Registers Nash tensing in his arms, speaking Russel's name. Registers Russel apologizing, the older boy turning to herd his brother out of the doorway and down the hall.
Notices, far too late, Nash's cock, stiff and tenting the front of the man's shorts, obvious and impossible to miss.
Oh god, they saw us, John.
Yes, Nash. I believe they did.
~*~*~*~
Nash fumbles into his clothing-his clothing, he won't admit that the dress, corset, and bonnet belong either to him or John-and hurries out of the room, calling his children's names as he goes, John following just behind him. He finds them in the sitting room, Fletcher on the sofa, eyes huge, Russel standing beside him, glaring.
"Um," he says.
"Wedidn'tseeanything," says Russel.
"Russel," says Nash.
"We'llknocknexttime," says Russel.
"Russel," says Nash.
Russel quiets, scowling at the arm of the sofa. John clears his throat, resting one hand at the small of Nash's back.
"Do we have to call you 'Mommy' now?" Fletcher wants to know, breaking the silence, looking curiously up at his father.
Nash's eyebrows lift. Russel's jaw drops. Fletcher makes a face.
"What? Do we? And is Mr. Belsio our daddy now?"
Nash shakes his head and ruffles his son's hair, looks up and catches Russel's eye, winking. "No, Fletcher," he says. "You don't have to call me that. I'm still your father. And John-"
He looks over his shoulder at his lover. John frowns at him.
"Just 'John' will be fine for now, I think," he says.
"But he kissed you, Daddy," says Fletcher. His brother swipes at him, but he dodges it, looking up at the older boy, eyes huge. "He did! You saw it too, Brother."
"Fletcher!" Russel hisses.
"Boys," says Nash, quieting whatever Fletcher opens his mouth to say. His children close their mouths and look up at him, Russel scowling, Fletcher pouting, scooting aside when Nash moves to sit beside him. "Yes, John kissed me, but that does not mean I'm your mother now. I could never fill your mother's shoes, wouldn't even want to try. I don't think I'd be very good at it."
Russel shakes his head. "No, you wouldn't," he says.
Fletcher nods. "But that's okay," he says. "I kinda like calling you 'Daddy' better, anyway."
~*~*~*~
Night falls, twenty-four hours alone having elapsed, and John sits up in bed, listening to the floorboards creak as Nash paces in the bathroom across the hall, brushing his teeth. The boys' room is quiet, no coughing or crying or whispering, but not silent, no tension or fear or secrets. Outside the window, there's no moon, thick clouds hanging low over the orchard, casting an even darkness across the trees.
He's not imagined this. Not dreamed or dreaded or thought of what might come after, when the whirlwind of truth and confusion has come to a stillness, a normalcy he's not had since his lover left him, years before. He chews absently at a hangnail and stares at the wall of the bedroom, his lover's dress and corset draped over the chair in the corner, mostly obscured beneath the trousers and shirt Nash wore while they prepared dinner, after sundown.
It's unnerving, he decides. Odd, not to know what will come next.
The sound of Nash closing the bedroom door and turning out the light draws him from his musings, the feel of Nash's hand on his chest and Nash's mouth against his own making him dizzy, his head spinning as Nash pulls him down and touches him, taking his breath away. Aroused and exhausted, he sinks into the feel of his lover, the oddly pleasant uncertainty of where Nash will touch him next, of where Nash's kisses will tickle him, warm and soft.
"We should sleep," he says, when Nash's hand falters, the man obviously struggling to stay awake.
"Mmm," says Nash. "Tomorrow, then."
He goes limp against John's side after only a handful of deep breaths, snoring softly into the fabric of John's sleeping shirt. John kisses him on the forehead and listens to him breathe, wakeful in the quiet of the house.
Tomorrow, he thinks.
Tomorrow, indeed.