Fullmetal Alchemist, "The Pain of Holding On," Belsio/Nash, PG
Um. *nervous laughter* So I wasn't going to do fanfiction anymore, remember? And then, when that didn't work out so well, I decided I'd do fluffy happy fanfiction, or at least fanfiction that focused on gay rights, my personal soapbox.
Well. So much for THAT.
Here we've got fic written for goldphish_bowl, who encourages me, prods me, and has now got me into 20_inkspots's queue of hopefuls. If/when they accept our claim, this'll fit for #19, "I won't let you fall apart."
If you find the story depressing ... well good, 'cause that's what it is.
(And you know, if I didn't know better, I'd think this fic was about an ageing AIDS couple. I mean really.)
Lemme know what you think of it if you read it. Yeah that means you, lurkers. You know who you are.
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. ^_^
The Pain of Holding On
by Mistr3ss Quickly
I love this man so much that it hurts, sometimes.
Not in the romantic sense of loving, either. With this man, loving is real, physical pain. Pain sharper and deeper and worse than the pull of my back, strained from a long day in the orchard. Pain more terrible and frightening than the adrenaline that wakes me at night, pumping through me from a dream about death.
Pale and thin and weak enough to only grumble a little when I help him walk from my bed to the bath, he looks up at me with those soulful eyes and says my name, says he's sorry. Winces a little when I lower him into the water and kneel on the cold tiles outside the tub. Says he loves me, he's lucky to have me.
Perhaps he's right, he is lucky to have me. But no luckier to have me than I am to have him, of that I'm absolutely certain.
I wash his hair, scrubbing my fingers through the coarse blonde strands, massaging his scalp. He moans softly, appreciatively, and closes his eyes. Begins humming something, a song I don't recognize, while I rinse his hair, careful not to get soap in his eyes.
"Okay?" I ask, when he groans and winces.
"Yes," he says. "Just a little stiff, still. Sorry."
Stiff from lying in bed for two weeks, too weak to sit up without help. Stiff from the poison still lurking in his muscles, making him sick and shaky. Stiff from the beating he took, imprisoned by the man who tried to kill him.
He kisses me on the ear when I've finished rinsing his hair and ease him forward, checking his back for bedsores. Kisses my cheek when I turn to see if he's kissing me or simply bumping me with his nose, a sign that he may be dizzy.
Kisses my mouth when I open it to ask him if he's feeling strong enough to bend forward and let me bathe him.
"John," he gasps, when I only kiss him back a little. "Oh god, John ..."
He gets his way. I kiss him 'til his hands are wrinkled from being in the bath too long, kiss him 'til my trousers are sticky with arousal, my body wanting-far more desperately than it's wanted in years-to touch and be touched, to hold and taste and feel and come.
He's out of breath when my conscience catches up. Blue eyes bright and cheeks flushed, more alive than he's seemed in years.
I bathe him carefully, quickly. Scared to keep him upright and submerged in warm water too long, scared he'll faint or be sick and relapse into the state I've just barely nursed him out of. Scared to stress him anymore than I have already.
His legs have gone terribly thin. His arms are deathly white. His ribs stick out far enough to catch on the cloth as I move it over him, the soap throwing his gauntness into sharp, awful relief.
His cock ...
"Almost done," I tell him, cupping water in my hand to rinse him.
"Feels good," he says, brushing his bone-thin fingers over his erection, the head poking up only an inch above the surface of the water. "Take your time."
He's asleep by the time I've rinsed him. Groggy when I lift him to his feet and dry him. Apologizing again when I help him dress and tuck him back into my bed.
"Don't rush yourself," I tell him, sitting beside him and holding his hand, wondering if I should wrap his hair in a towel until it's dried. "You'll recover more quickly if you rest."
He nods. "Thank you, John," he whispers. "For everything. I'm so lucky to have you."
I stay beside him until sleep claims him, watching even then, just to see the blankets rise and fall as he breathes. I hold his hand even after his goes limp in my grasp, just to feel its warmth, its movement when he shifts, dreaming.
It hurts to leave his side, to go and tend to my orchard, to prepare the evening meal. Hurts to return to him and see him struggle to wake, struggle to sit up and eat the soup he's still not strong enough to eat without my help.
He kisses me and asks me to stay. I make no effort to refuse him.
"Love you, John," he murmurs, nestling his body against mine, warm and weak.
I close my eyes. "I love you too," I whisper.
So much that it hurts. I don't mind the pain at all.
~*~
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥
Well. So much for THAT.
Here we've got fic written for goldphish_bowl, who encourages me, prods me, and has now got me into 20_inkspots's queue of hopefuls. If/when they accept our claim, this'll fit for #19, "I won't let you fall apart."
If you find the story depressing ... well good, 'cause that's what it is.
(And you know, if I didn't know better, I'd think this fic was about an ageing AIDS couple. I mean really.)
Lemme know what you think of it if you read it. Yeah that means you, lurkers. You know who you are.
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. ^_^
The Pain of Holding On
by Mistr3ss Quickly
I love this man so much that it hurts, sometimes.
Not in the romantic sense of loving, either. With this man, loving is real, physical pain. Pain sharper and deeper and worse than the pull of my back, strained from a long day in the orchard. Pain more terrible and frightening than the adrenaline that wakes me at night, pumping through me from a dream about death.
Pale and thin and weak enough to only grumble a little when I help him walk from my bed to the bath, he looks up at me with those soulful eyes and says my name, says he's sorry. Winces a little when I lower him into the water and kneel on the cold tiles outside the tub. Says he loves me, he's lucky to have me.
Perhaps he's right, he is lucky to have me. But no luckier to have me than I am to have him, of that I'm absolutely certain.
I wash his hair, scrubbing my fingers through the coarse blonde strands, massaging his scalp. He moans softly, appreciatively, and closes his eyes. Begins humming something, a song I don't recognize, while I rinse his hair, careful not to get soap in his eyes.
"Okay?" I ask, when he groans and winces.
"Yes," he says. "Just a little stiff, still. Sorry."
Stiff from lying in bed for two weeks, too weak to sit up without help. Stiff from the poison still lurking in his muscles, making him sick and shaky. Stiff from the beating he took, imprisoned by the man who tried to kill him.
He kisses me on the ear when I've finished rinsing his hair and ease him forward, checking his back for bedsores. Kisses my cheek when I turn to see if he's kissing me or simply bumping me with his nose, a sign that he may be dizzy.
Kisses my mouth when I open it to ask him if he's feeling strong enough to bend forward and let me bathe him.
"John," he gasps, when I only kiss him back a little. "Oh god, John ..."
He gets his way. I kiss him 'til his hands are wrinkled from being in the bath too long, kiss him 'til my trousers are sticky with arousal, my body wanting-far more desperately than it's wanted in years-to touch and be touched, to hold and taste and feel and come.
He's out of breath when my conscience catches up. Blue eyes bright and cheeks flushed, more alive than he's seemed in years.
I bathe him carefully, quickly. Scared to keep him upright and submerged in warm water too long, scared he'll faint or be sick and relapse into the state I've just barely nursed him out of. Scared to stress him anymore than I have already.
His legs have gone terribly thin. His arms are deathly white. His ribs stick out far enough to catch on the cloth as I move it over him, the soap throwing his gauntness into sharp, awful relief.
His cock ...
"Almost done," I tell him, cupping water in my hand to rinse him.
"Feels good," he says, brushing his bone-thin fingers over his erection, the head poking up only an inch above the surface of the water. "Take your time."
He's asleep by the time I've rinsed him. Groggy when I lift him to his feet and dry him. Apologizing again when I help him dress and tuck him back into my bed.
"Don't rush yourself," I tell him, sitting beside him and holding his hand, wondering if I should wrap his hair in a towel until it's dried. "You'll recover more quickly if you rest."
He nods. "Thank you, John," he whispers. "For everything. I'm so lucky to have you."
I stay beside him until sleep claims him, watching even then, just to see the blankets rise and fall as he breathes. I hold his hand even after his goes limp in my grasp, just to feel its warmth, its movement when he shifts, dreaming.
It hurts to leave his side, to go and tend to my orchard, to prepare the evening meal. Hurts to return to him and see him struggle to wake, struggle to sit up and eat the soup he's still not strong enough to eat without my help.
He kisses me and asks me to stay. I make no effort to refuse him.
"Love you, John," he murmurs, nestling his body against mine, warm and weak.
I close my eyes. "I love you too," I whisper.
So much that it hurts. I don't mind the pain at all.
~*~
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥