Fullmetal Alchemist, "Adjustment," Belsio/Nash, Hard R
Yet another 20_inkspots challenge story, this one for prompt #4, "Up so high." That means I have one-ONE-challenge left to go. Halle-freakin-lujah, man. *sighs*
This was written as a belated present for my dear friend Daiin, whose birthday was one big disappointment this year. Three cheers for a year where only the very first day of it sucks, and the rest is beautiful.
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. ^_^
Adjustment
by mistr3ss Quickly
Something is amiss. John can feel it.
Like when a storm is coming, heavy rain that will pull at the earth around his trees' roots, strong wind that will strain the branches, damage the crop. Like when his back is going to go out, leaving him sore for days, hindering his movements as he goes through is daily routine, lifting and carrying and bending.
But it's not a storm, nor is it his back that John can feel, lurking in the corners of his consciousness. The sky is clear, dotted with millions of brilliant stars. His body is weary from the day's labor, certainly, but there are no twinges along his spine, no ache down his legs.
Nash touches him on the elbow, helping him set the table for dinner. Asks if he's all right, if something's bothering him.
"No," says John. "I'm fine."
Nash doesn't argue, but doesn't believe him, either. Kisses him on the lips, before going to call the boys to dinner, his hand brushing down the curve of John's spine. John expects it to hurt, even a little.
It doesn't.
Russel comes to the table in one of his foul moods, shoulders hunched in a sulk, eyes downcast. Nash follows him, rolling his eyes at John when John gives him a questioning frown, then takes his seat.
Fletcher sees the look his parents exchange and grins as he flops into his own chair, all awkward teenage gangle. "No books at the dinner table," he says. "Just like you said it was when Daddy was Brother's age."
John coughs quietly, busying himself with mixing dressing onto his salad while Nash glares at him, a look so similar to the one Russel's giving his younger brother that it takes some effort for John to neither smile nor laugh. "I see," he says.
No impending family problems, then. Just Russel sulking over the stifling feeling Xenotime tends to give teenaged Alchemists, probably a bit lonely without Edward around, as a research partner or a warm body to hold in his bed, John doesn't particularly care to know, or consider.
"No books about naked people at the table, especially," says Fletcher, shoving a forkful of greens into his mouth and chewing like a goat.
"I'm studying skin grafting, you twerp," snarls Russel, his face gone as red as the tomato he's speared with his fork. "I need it for the insec-um." He goes even redder and jerks, kicking his brother under the table. "Shut up, Fletch."
Fletcher howls, putting on quite a bit more of a show than is strictly necessary. Russel has never struck his brother hard enough to really hurt the boy, even in the midst of their worst fights. Always restrains himself, the need to protect his younger brother bred deep into his bones.
Nash sighs. "Russel, don't kick your brother. Fletcher, don't talk with your mouth full," he says.
"M'kay," says Fletcher, a fleck of chewed carrot escaping his mouth.
Russel rolls his eyes and doesn't say anything, drops his gaze and attacks his dinner like it's making fun of him, too.
The meal passes in relative silence, unusual for their family. John watches the boys, Fletcher's body moving constantly as he kicks his legs under the table, feet scrubbing the floorboards where his legs are too long now to swing freely. Watches Russel eat with his left hand, sketching invisible arrays on his napkin with the tip of his index finger. Nash notices, as well, but doesn't say anything, a hint of pride in his smile when he finishes eating and sits back, sipping his water and watching his son out of the corner of his eye.
"That one's unbalanced," he says, finally, when Russel's hand has moved in the same pattern, several times, as if he's trying to memorize it. "You'll transmute mercury with that."
Russel jumps like he's been shot and moves his fork to his right hand, shovels the last bites of his dinner into his mouth fast enough that John worries that he'll choke. "I know," he says, around his food.
Nash nods, and doesn't yell at him for talking with his mouth full.
It's Russel's night to do the dishes, Fletcher's night to dry. The boys draw a sullen, quiet truce as they work side-by-side at the sink. John watches them from his place by the fire, distracted from his record-keeping by every splash, every bite of Russel's voice, telling Fletcher to do or not do something. When Nash joins him, offering him a glass of wine, John accepts it gratefully and puts his book away, adds another log to the fire.
The wine is good. Better than he was expecting, when he took his first sip. He tells Nash as much, frowns at the deep red liquid as he sloshes it carefully around inside the glass.
"Mmm," says Nash.
John takes another drink, rolls the flavor over his tongue. "Very good," he says, swallowing.
Nash pats him on the thigh and stands, disappears into the kitchen. John can hear him telling the boys not to splash water everywhere, the boys answering with a chorus of okay, Daddy! and we know, Dad. When he returns, he's got the wine-bottle in one hand, his glass in the other. Passes the bottle to John and sits back down, saying something under his breath about the urge to smack Russel upside the head, sometimes.
"He's very much like his father," John comments, mildly. He pulls his glasses out of his pocket, perches them on his nose so that he can read the fine print on the bottle.
R&F Tringham catches him by surprise. He glances at Nash, sees the man smiling.
"They've been working on it for awhile now," he says. "Wanted to keep it a secret from both of us, but I happened across some of Russel's notes and recognized the array for fermenting juice, so they had to tell me what they were up to." He chuckles. "I thought they were trying to make moonshine and sell it illegally. Scared me."
"Ah," says John.
Not a surprising conclusion for a father to draw, considering his boys' history. Nor is it surprising that Nash would panic, his older son of the age finally where such illegal activities would have very real, very devastating consequences.
Nash sighs and takes the bottle, pulls the cork from the mouth and refills John's glass. "Russel was furious, when I forced him to tell me," he says. "Boy's full of secrets, even still."
John frowns at him. Wants to ask if, perhaps, it is inappropriate for them to be drinking the wine the children made for them while the children are in the kitchen, doing the dishes. But motion catches his eye, Fletcher grinning at him from the entrance to the kitchen for just a second before Russel yanks him back by the collar, hard enough that Fletcher complains.
"Leave 'em alone, Fletch," he can hear Russel saying. "It's not a present if you're there watching them. Weirdo."
"I just wanted to see if they like it!" Fletcher whines. "Butt-munch."
Russel sighs. "Shut up, Fletch," he says. "You're such a big baby. God."
John feels Nash's laughter shaking the man's body, looks down to see him shaking his head.
"I should go break that up before it turns serious," he says, without moving.
"Ah," says John. "Probably."
He takes another drink of wine. Watches his lover do the same, nearly emptying his glass.
By the time the boys have finished the dishes, their fight either forgotten or dismissed as unimportant, John has refilled Nash's glass, Nash reaching for the bottle to refill John's glass. John is warm and relaxed, the room spinning just a bit, Nash's weight against him more pleasant than he can remember it ever being, even back in the days when it was all his, a gift he'd not thought he'd ever have again.
"Thank you, for the wine," he says, when Russel follows Fletcher out of the kitchen, unrolling his sleeves and re-buttoning the cuffs. "It has a very nice flavor."
Russel blushes. Fletcher beams.
"That's good," he says. "Brother tasted it, but he wouldn't let me have any."
He looks up at John expectantly. John shakes his head.
"In a few years," he says. "You are still underage."
Fletcher pouts at him. Russel whacks him across the shoulder.
"Ow!" says Fletcher. Then he gives John a crooked grin. "Oh yeah," he says. "Happy birthday!"
"Happy birthday," Russel echoes. He gets a grip on Fletcher's shirt-collar and tugs. "And goodnight."
"Yeah!" says Fletcher, looking more than happy to be dragged away. "Goodnight!"
"Goodnight," says John.
"Goodnight," says Nash. "Don't forget to brush your teeth."
He chuckles and drinks the last swallow of wine in his glass, the sofa creaking as he leans forward to set his empty glass on the low table, next to the wine-bottle. Settles back beside John with a sigh, relaxed and heavy and quiet as John finishes what's left in his own glass.
He tastes like wine, when John kisses him. Moves like he's drunk when he turns and pulls John down on top of him, lying as flat as he can on the small sofa, John's body cradled between his legs.
"We should go to the bedroom," he murmurs, when one of John's hands finds his erection, rubbing it through the front of his trousers.
"Ah," says John, fingers clumsy from the alcohol in his system, struggling to unbuckle Nash's belt, to tug Nash's zipper down. "Probably."
He works Nash's cock out of the man's underwear, strokes it roughly as he moves down the sofa, his head spinning as he takes it into his mouth, mingling the rich flavor of wine with the musky flavor of his lover's body. Under him, Nash moans softly, all thoughts of moving to the bedroom chased completely from his mind.
~*~*~*~
The following morning, he wakes to the throb of a mild headache, a stomach growling loudly under his ear, and the sound of giggling, close by. Sits up to the sight of Fletcher leaning on the back of the sofa, blushing and grinning and pointing at his father, who is still asleep, snoring open-mouthed.
"Brother snores like that, sometimes," he says. "But usually only when he's got a cold or allergies."
"I see," says John, relief flooding him at the sight of Nash's trousers, belt still unbuckled but buttoned and zipped, at least, keeping the man decent.
"He sleeps sprawled like that, too," says Fletcher. "Bet he couldn't sleep like you were, curled up like that."
John nods, his cheeks heating. "I see," he says, again.
Fletcher fidgets. "Anyway," he says, "Brother said I was supposed to stay here and wait for you to wake up so I could warn him that you were up, but you woke up too soon, so just stay here, 'kay? We don't have the array we made to take care of the leaves the bugs ate on the trees in the southern corner ready, yet." He frowns. "Oh, and I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Can you pretend you're asleep, maybe?"
John looks from him to his father, then back again. "Yes," he says.
"Thanks!" says Fletcher.
Then he darts off, calling loudly to his brother that they're still asleep, don't worry, I checked!
Nash's snoring stops, replaced with a quiet chuckle.
"It would've made it easier on them if they'd known more than a week in advance that your birthday was today, you know," he says, pushing himself up and pressing a stubble-rough kiss to John's lips. "They've been rushing, ever since I told them when it was."
"Ah," says John. "It didn't occur to me that it might matter."
Nash sighs. "Of course it matters, John," he says. "You should know that by now."
John blinks at him, then nods. "Yes," he says. "I suppose I should."
~*~*~*~
After that, everything feels right, again. Just as it should.
This was written as a belated present for my dear friend Daiin, whose birthday was one big disappointment this year. Three cheers for a year where only the very first day of it sucks, and the rest is beautiful.
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. ^_^
Adjustment
by mistr3ss Quickly
Something is amiss. John can feel it.
Like when a storm is coming, heavy rain that will pull at the earth around his trees' roots, strong wind that will strain the branches, damage the crop. Like when his back is going to go out, leaving him sore for days, hindering his movements as he goes through is daily routine, lifting and carrying and bending.
But it's not a storm, nor is it his back that John can feel, lurking in the corners of his consciousness. The sky is clear, dotted with millions of brilliant stars. His body is weary from the day's labor, certainly, but there are no twinges along his spine, no ache down his legs.
Nash touches him on the elbow, helping him set the table for dinner. Asks if he's all right, if something's bothering him.
"No," says John. "I'm fine."
Nash doesn't argue, but doesn't believe him, either. Kisses him on the lips, before going to call the boys to dinner, his hand brushing down the curve of John's spine. John expects it to hurt, even a little.
It doesn't.
Russel comes to the table in one of his foul moods, shoulders hunched in a sulk, eyes downcast. Nash follows him, rolling his eyes at John when John gives him a questioning frown, then takes his seat.
Fletcher sees the look his parents exchange and grins as he flops into his own chair, all awkward teenage gangle. "No books at the dinner table," he says. "Just like you said it was when Daddy was Brother's age."
John coughs quietly, busying himself with mixing dressing onto his salad while Nash glares at him, a look so similar to the one Russel's giving his younger brother that it takes some effort for John to neither smile nor laugh. "I see," he says.
No impending family problems, then. Just Russel sulking over the stifling feeling Xenotime tends to give teenaged Alchemists, probably a bit lonely without Edward around, as a research partner or a warm body to hold in his bed, John doesn't particularly care to know, or consider.
"No books about naked people at the table, especially," says Fletcher, shoving a forkful of greens into his mouth and chewing like a goat.
"I'm studying skin grafting, you twerp," snarls Russel, his face gone as red as the tomato he's speared with his fork. "I need it for the insec-um." He goes even redder and jerks, kicking his brother under the table. "Shut up, Fletch."
Fletcher howls, putting on quite a bit more of a show than is strictly necessary. Russel has never struck his brother hard enough to really hurt the boy, even in the midst of their worst fights. Always restrains himself, the need to protect his younger brother bred deep into his bones.
Nash sighs. "Russel, don't kick your brother. Fletcher, don't talk with your mouth full," he says.
"M'kay," says Fletcher, a fleck of chewed carrot escaping his mouth.
Russel rolls his eyes and doesn't say anything, drops his gaze and attacks his dinner like it's making fun of him, too.
The meal passes in relative silence, unusual for their family. John watches the boys, Fletcher's body moving constantly as he kicks his legs under the table, feet scrubbing the floorboards where his legs are too long now to swing freely. Watches Russel eat with his left hand, sketching invisible arrays on his napkin with the tip of his index finger. Nash notices, as well, but doesn't say anything, a hint of pride in his smile when he finishes eating and sits back, sipping his water and watching his son out of the corner of his eye.
"That one's unbalanced," he says, finally, when Russel's hand has moved in the same pattern, several times, as if he's trying to memorize it. "You'll transmute mercury with that."
Russel jumps like he's been shot and moves his fork to his right hand, shovels the last bites of his dinner into his mouth fast enough that John worries that he'll choke. "I know," he says, around his food.
Nash nods, and doesn't yell at him for talking with his mouth full.
It's Russel's night to do the dishes, Fletcher's night to dry. The boys draw a sullen, quiet truce as they work side-by-side at the sink. John watches them from his place by the fire, distracted from his record-keeping by every splash, every bite of Russel's voice, telling Fletcher to do or not do something. When Nash joins him, offering him a glass of wine, John accepts it gratefully and puts his book away, adds another log to the fire.
The wine is good. Better than he was expecting, when he took his first sip. He tells Nash as much, frowns at the deep red liquid as he sloshes it carefully around inside the glass.
"Mmm," says Nash.
John takes another drink, rolls the flavor over his tongue. "Very good," he says, swallowing.
Nash pats him on the thigh and stands, disappears into the kitchen. John can hear him telling the boys not to splash water everywhere, the boys answering with a chorus of okay, Daddy! and we know, Dad. When he returns, he's got the wine-bottle in one hand, his glass in the other. Passes the bottle to John and sits back down, saying something under his breath about the urge to smack Russel upside the head, sometimes.
"He's very much like his father," John comments, mildly. He pulls his glasses out of his pocket, perches them on his nose so that he can read the fine print on the bottle.
R&F Tringham catches him by surprise. He glances at Nash, sees the man smiling.
"They've been working on it for awhile now," he says. "Wanted to keep it a secret from both of us, but I happened across some of Russel's notes and recognized the array for fermenting juice, so they had to tell me what they were up to." He chuckles. "I thought they were trying to make moonshine and sell it illegally. Scared me."
"Ah," says John.
Not a surprising conclusion for a father to draw, considering his boys' history. Nor is it surprising that Nash would panic, his older son of the age finally where such illegal activities would have very real, very devastating consequences.
Nash sighs and takes the bottle, pulls the cork from the mouth and refills John's glass. "Russel was furious, when I forced him to tell me," he says. "Boy's full of secrets, even still."
John frowns at him. Wants to ask if, perhaps, it is inappropriate for them to be drinking the wine the children made for them while the children are in the kitchen, doing the dishes. But motion catches his eye, Fletcher grinning at him from the entrance to the kitchen for just a second before Russel yanks him back by the collar, hard enough that Fletcher complains.
"Leave 'em alone, Fletch," he can hear Russel saying. "It's not a present if you're there watching them. Weirdo."
"I just wanted to see if they like it!" Fletcher whines. "Butt-munch."
Russel sighs. "Shut up, Fletch," he says. "You're such a big baby. God."
John feels Nash's laughter shaking the man's body, looks down to see him shaking his head.
"I should go break that up before it turns serious," he says, without moving.
"Ah," says John. "Probably."
He takes another drink of wine. Watches his lover do the same, nearly emptying his glass.
By the time the boys have finished the dishes, their fight either forgotten or dismissed as unimportant, John has refilled Nash's glass, Nash reaching for the bottle to refill John's glass. John is warm and relaxed, the room spinning just a bit, Nash's weight against him more pleasant than he can remember it ever being, even back in the days when it was all his, a gift he'd not thought he'd ever have again.
"Thank you, for the wine," he says, when Russel follows Fletcher out of the kitchen, unrolling his sleeves and re-buttoning the cuffs. "It has a very nice flavor."
Russel blushes. Fletcher beams.
"That's good," he says. "Brother tasted it, but he wouldn't let me have any."
He looks up at John expectantly. John shakes his head.
"In a few years," he says. "You are still underage."
Fletcher pouts at him. Russel whacks him across the shoulder.
"Ow!" says Fletcher. Then he gives John a crooked grin. "Oh yeah," he says. "Happy birthday!"
"Happy birthday," Russel echoes. He gets a grip on Fletcher's shirt-collar and tugs. "And goodnight."
"Yeah!" says Fletcher, looking more than happy to be dragged away. "Goodnight!"
"Goodnight," says John.
"Goodnight," says Nash. "Don't forget to brush your teeth."
He chuckles and drinks the last swallow of wine in his glass, the sofa creaking as he leans forward to set his empty glass on the low table, next to the wine-bottle. Settles back beside John with a sigh, relaxed and heavy and quiet as John finishes what's left in his own glass.
He tastes like wine, when John kisses him. Moves like he's drunk when he turns and pulls John down on top of him, lying as flat as he can on the small sofa, John's body cradled between his legs.
"We should go to the bedroom," he murmurs, when one of John's hands finds his erection, rubbing it through the front of his trousers.
"Ah," says John, fingers clumsy from the alcohol in his system, struggling to unbuckle Nash's belt, to tug Nash's zipper down. "Probably."
He works Nash's cock out of the man's underwear, strokes it roughly as he moves down the sofa, his head spinning as he takes it into his mouth, mingling the rich flavor of wine with the musky flavor of his lover's body. Under him, Nash moans softly, all thoughts of moving to the bedroom chased completely from his mind.
~*~*~*~
The following morning, he wakes to the throb of a mild headache, a stomach growling loudly under his ear, and the sound of giggling, close by. Sits up to the sight of Fletcher leaning on the back of the sofa, blushing and grinning and pointing at his father, who is still asleep, snoring open-mouthed.
"Brother snores like that, sometimes," he says. "But usually only when he's got a cold or allergies."
"I see," says John, relief flooding him at the sight of Nash's trousers, belt still unbuckled but buttoned and zipped, at least, keeping the man decent.
"He sleeps sprawled like that, too," says Fletcher. "Bet he couldn't sleep like you were, curled up like that."
John nods, his cheeks heating. "I see," he says, again.
Fletcher fidgets. "Anyway," he says, "Brother said I was supposed to stay here and wait for you to wake up so I could warn him that you were up, but you woke up too soon, so just stay here, 'kay? We don't have the array we made to take care of the leaves the bugs ate on the trees in the southern corner ready, yet." He frowns. "Oh, and I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Can you pretend you're asleep, maybe?"
John looks from him to his father, then back again. "Yes," he says.
"Thanks!" says Fletcher.
Then he darts off, calling loudly to his brother that they're still asleep, don't worry, I checked!
Nash's snoring stops, replaced with a quiet chuckle.
"It would've made it easier on them if they'd known more than a week in advance that your birthday was today, you know," he says, pushing himself up and pressing a stubble-rough kiss to John's lips. "They've been rushing, ever since I told them when it was."
"Ah," says John. "It didn't occur to me that it might matter."
Nash sighs. "Of course it matters, John," he says. "You should know that by now."
John blinks at him, then nods. "Yes," he says. "I suppose I should."
~*~*~*~
After that, everything feels right, again. Just as it should.