Fullmetal Alchemist, "A Breath of Fresh Air," Belsio/Nash, NC-17
*laughs ass off* Okay, well this fic didn't come out at all like I'd intended it to come out. I started it with the intention of doing a pseudo-Ai no Kusabi story, where Nash totally owns Belsio's ass and Belsio does ... well Riki-ish things.
(Belsio is voiced by the same guy who voices Riki, that's why. No I'm not completely cracked, just mostly.)
Anyway, that's not at all how it turned out, but I still like the story well enough and hope you will, as well. It's got a helluva lemon in it, so that's always a plus, right?
Right. Fulfills prompt #5, "on the nightstand" for 20_inkspots, which still hasn't gotten back to us yet on our request for membership. ;_;
Cheers!
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. ^_^
A Breath of Fresh Air
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John tends to his lover, even after Nash's body has recovered from the traumas it has endured. Watches over him carefully, and worries about him. Wonders how deep the wounds go that medicine and bed-rest cannot touch, how much of Nash's spirit has been broken beyond repair.
Nash doesn't seem to mind, much. He sits by the window in the bedroom during the day, staring blankly out at the lemon trees swaying in the evening breeze. In his hand, he holds a photo of his children, one that John happened to find in the pocket of his raincoat, weeks before, and on a whim set beside the bed during his convalescence.
Russel is smiling, in the photo, one hand resting on his younger brother's shoulder. Nash, also, is smiling, though not as wide as his son. And Fletcher, standing between them, looks as though he'd rather be elsewhere, his mouth open a bit, showing a gap where he's lost his two front teeth.
He looks very much like Nash did, as a child. So much so that it makes John feel nostalgic, his chest heavy with the emotion, every time he sees the photo, resting on the bedside table.
"Nash," he says, one evening, speaking quietly so as not to startle his lover out of whatever thoughts Nash has drowned himself in that day. "Supper is ready."
Nash draws a deep breath and looks up at him, blue eyes and gaunt cheeks and chapped lips, skin sallow even in the sunset's warm light. "Thanks," he says, pushing his chair back and rising.
Out of habit, John reaches for him, one hand on one of Nash's arms, just in case. Nash smiles and brushes it away, shaking his head as he returns the photo to the nightstand, setting it beside John's hairbrush.
"I'm fine, John," he says, softly, returning to John's side and kissing him on the corner of the mouth.
"Indeed," says John.
He doesn't argue with Nash, usually, because arguing with Nash is an unholy waste of time. Nash is a scientist by nature, a man of logic and rationality, a man whose work is built on the ability to argue one's point and defend it against opposition, and he doesn't hesitate to put into practice such skills, even when arguing something as simple as how much alcohol he should drink in the evenings, or how careful he should be with his body as it heals.
Nash is a grown man. John knows that he should trust him to do what's best, to take care of himself however he feels he should.
Still, it's hard.
Hard to let go when he's been holding on so very, very long.
They eat supper together in relative silence, nothing much to speak of on a day when neither of them has left the house, a day so painfully similar to the day before and the day before that, on and on until the days neither of them wants to remember. Days of fear and sickness and pain, days when John proved his love and Nash loved him for it, dying in John's bed. Once the meal is finished, they wash the dishes and sit by the fire, Nash staring blankly as he sips the wine John pours for them both, firelight throwing shadows across his face.
He blinks when John moves closer to him, as though he's been dreaming and isn't certain that he's woken. Starts to say something like John's name but stops when John kisses him, sets his wineglass aside and kisses John back, harder and rougher and deeper and better.
"Bed, John," he says, when his hand wanders up John's thigh and feels John's erection, warm through the trousers John wears, so deliciously tempting that it makes his mouth water. "Bed, please, John ..."
"Mmm," says John.
He tries to help Nash stand, reaching for Nash with something other than lustful impatience. Nash shakes him off.
"I can walk on my own," he says, soft but firm.
"Mmm," says John. He motions towards the bedroom. "Please."
They don't bother to light the lamp in the corner, the light from the hallway sufficient for them to see one another, John's dark eyes and Nash's pale skin, both of them visibly aroused already, erections tenting their pants. Nash relaxes back onto the mattress, lying in John's arms for what feels like the first time. He bites at John's throat, tasting the salt of sweat collected on the man's skin, the earthy flavor of the soap John makes himself to sell at market. A familiar scent, familiar flavor, the perfect complement to a familiar man.
Over him, John moans softly, eyes half-closed and lips parted, strong muscles thrown into perfect relief in the light of the moon rising pale over the trees. He's aged well, Nash thinks. Grown into a powerful man, one he's surprised to discover he's proud to know, proud to love. Proud to have, all to himself.
They've been careful of each other for so many days. Wary and gentle and stiffly polite, uncertain in a way they've not been in decades. Now, they recognize the need to reconcile, to finish this day as friends. As partners.
Lovers.
"John," Nash whispers, breathing across the mark he's sucked dark in the curve of John's neck.
"Mmm," John answers, lowering himself enough to rub against Nash, his erection stiff and hot, even though their trousers.
Nash bucks his hips, rubbing back, and gets a kiss for it, sloppy and wet and open-mouthed, John's reserved nature tinged with passion he shows nowhere else, around no one else. Here, in the home John can call his own, the home he's quietly offered to share with Nash, John makes no pretense, acting like the horny young man Nash fell in love with, years before, the lover Nash alone knows him to be.
"John, fuck me," he murmurs, when the scrub of his trousers against his cock starts to burn.
"Mmm," John answers, shuddering all over, jerking when Nash reaches between them to unbutton his pants.
They undress themselves, clothing tossed haphazardly to the floor, but before John can get his fingers, wet with oil, into Nash's body, they're kissing again, Nash's arms draped around John's neck, dragging John down with him, the bed squeaking in protest.
John laughs when Nash repeats his request. He doesn't need to point out that it's Nash's own fault that they're not yet making love. He knows that Nash knows already, and suspects that Nash knows that he knows, his suspicions confirmed by the little smile he kisses on Nash's lips, his middle finger pushing carefully into the tight heat of Nash's body.
It's been ages since they made love. Four years, nearly five. Nash's body isn't the only thing that's struggling to adjust.
Because it's difficult, for John. Honestly difficult to hold Nash in his arms and enter Nash with his fingers and kiss Nash with all the love and wanting and passion he feels, rushing through his entire being. There's fear and worry and resentment and guilt mixed in, as well. Memories far too fresh of Nash, weak and needy and fragile, lying in the very same bed they lie in now. Memories of praying, far more fervently than he's ever prayed before, that Nash would recover from his illness. Praying sometimes that Nash would simply wake from his sleep.
Once or twice, when things were the worst, praying that Nash would die, just to free him from his suffering.
Nash shivers beneath him and says his name. "Another," he prompts, gently. "Come on John, I'm not going to break."
John hums softly and pulls his finger out altogether. Carefully pours more oil onto it and his index finger, rubbing them together to spread the slick stuff around before lowering his hand, gently palming Nash's balls as he enters the man, once again.
He doesn't tell Nash that he's worried Nash will break. He doesn't tell Nash that he's seen him broken, before.
Instead, he kisses his lover on the mouth, reveling in the feel of stubble against his lips. Moves his hand so that his fingers fuck Nash. Not the rough sort of treatment Nash whimpers for, writhing beneath him; in fact, it's far more gentle than he fucked Nash when they were teenagers, desperate and horny and riding the adrenaline of sneaking around, stealing pleasure whenever and wherever they could.
It's enough, though. Nash's body relaxes and opens around John's fingers, accepting a third with no trouble, trembling hard when John rubs his prostate.
"John," he gasps. "John ... please."
That's enough, too.
John pulls his fingers free and slicks himself, the touch of his own hand to his own cock somehow different than it's been over the long lonely years he's had nothing more than it and his memories of Nash to satisfy him. More electric, more powerful. More arousing, but it's Nash's gaze on him, Nash's chest heaving as Nash watches him that does it.
"Yes," Nash breathes, when John looks up at him, the unspoken question bitter in his mouth. "Yes, John. Please."
He spreads his legs wide, toes curling against the mattress. His cock twitches, precome dripping down onto the pale skin of his belly.
Enough is nearly too much, then. John clears his throat and fumbles with the oil, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. It's been so long, so very, very long, and so much has happened, so much love and worry and grief and anger. So much passion, denied and ignored and suppressed. And Nash isn't helping, moving restlessly atop the bedsheets. Sighing and licking his lips. Stretching out his leg to tickle John's hip with the tip of his big toe.
John twists, stretching away from Nash to put the jar of lubricant back on the bedside table where it belongs. Tries to breathe slowly, to ease the throbbing want between his legs.
The photo catches his eye.
Nash, younger and far healthier than the Nash lying in his bed. Two boys, each in some way like a mirror image of their father.
John stares at it. Studies it. Really looks at it for the first time since he found it, rumpled in Nash's coat-pocket.
"John?"
He turns back to his lover, bends down to kiss Nash on the lips. Shifts their position on the bed so that his back is to the photo, his body blocking Nash's view of the bedside table altogether. Photos of people can't watch two old men make love, but still.
He's protected Nash from bullies and Alchemists and depression and death. Might as well protect him from the eyes of his children, too.
Nash groans when John enters him, finally. His body has forgotten John's, has forgotten how to relax and let John in, how to find arousal in the discomfort, pleasure in the stretch and sting. His erection wilts, lolling limply in the smear of precome, shrinking back into its foreskin. John notices and shifts, rocking his hips just the barest inch in and out of Nash's body as he scoops his lover's cock into his palm, teasing it back to life with a gentle rub of his thumb, a gentle squeeze of his hand.
It takes a moment, but slowly, Nash's body remembers. His entire body warms to life, his skin humming with feeling. His vision blurs, breath catching in his throat. His cock swells under John's touch, stiffening fully by the time John is seated fully inside him, hard and thick.
"Good," he whispers, bucking his hips under John's weight, reaching out to brace himself against John's strong shoulder. "Feels good."
"Mmm," says John.
They make love slowly, at first, Nash's feet braced against the bed and John's hips moving in a steady rhythm, cock entering Nash not quite all the way, pulling out until the head's all that's inside. Gentle enough that it's not quite lustful, John's mind clear enough that he can watch Nash for any signs of discomfort, any sign that he needs to stop.
Nash takes it for all of three minutes. Then, he takes matters into his own hands.
"John," he murmurs, lifting his legs, John's strong chest cradled between his thighs. "John, faster."
John says nothing, always the quieter partner in bed. He puts both hands to Nash's sides and strokes them down, fingers bumping over each of Nash's ribs, a silent testimony of lingering fear and worry. But before Nash can form an impatient reassurance, John's hands tighten, holding him steady for a strong forward thrust, one which makes the bed squeak, makes Nash's vision blur.
"Ngh," he groans, his hand falling away from his cock, instead bracing him against John's body. "Yes, like that ..."
It's not faster, per se, but it's damned good. Slow and hard and just a little bit painful, John's back stiff from a long day of lifting heavy crates in the storage cellar, Nash's body stretched tight around him. Nash arches up and pushes down, writhing under John's weight, John watching him all the while, breathing hard, muscles trembling with exertion and desire.
He comes first, groaning loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. Arches his back and closes his eyes, cock pulsing hard against the tight muscle of Nash's ass. Comes while Nash watches him, the novelty of not being alone just as thrilling and breathtaking as the rush of orgasm, the flood of release spreading throughout his body.
Nash tightens around him when John finishes with a gasping sigh, trembling from exertion. "Stay inside," he orders, wrapping his hand around his own cock and pumping it, hard enough that the bedframe shudders under them, rocking against the bedroom wall. "S-stay in. 'M close."
"Mmm," says John.
He does as Nash tells him to, his cock still lodged deep in Nash's body, even as he begins to soften. He watches Nash masturbate and does what he can to add to the pleasure, stroking his hands up Nash's sides, rubbing his thumbs over Nash's nipples. Touches everywhere he can reach, distracting himself from friction that's very nearly too much, Nash's body spasming intimately around him.
Nash comes after only a few minutes, arching hard enough that John slips out of him completely, wet and sticky. Semen stripes his chest and belly, white against his pale skin, John's smearing the inside of his thighs, the curve of his buttocks. He moans through the last tremors of it, semen dribbling over the back of is hand and down his wrist, his eyes dark and unfocused when John bends to kiss him.
"Love you too," he whispers against John's mouth, when John murmurs the sentiment to him.
He doesn't much like being helped out of bed and across the hall to the bath. Opens his mouth to tell John that he's fine, that if he can get fucked then he can walk and bathe on his own.
But then John steps into the bath with him, and Nash decides his objections don't matter quite so much anymore.
~*~*~*~
Warm and clean and dizzy from the hot shower, Nash stumbles in the bathroom, falling to the cool tiles with no grace at all, his knees aching as John bends to help him up, his previous worry replaced with unrestrained fear, written clearly across his face.
"I'm fine," Nash reassures him. "Seriously, John, I'm fine."
John keeps an arm around him as they walk back to the bedroom, anyway. Doesn't dress until Nash has dressed in his sleeping pants and lain down, small and frail-looking all alone in John's bed. Nash doesn't fight him, the haunted look in John's eyes enough to quiet his protests, allowing the man the comfort of caring for him, of knowing he's done something, at least.
He stares at the dark wall of the bedroom, the curtains shifting where the window doesn't quite seal, lost in thought when John joins him in bed. He jumps when John touches him, hand resting lightly on his belly, lacing their fingers together with a murmur of relax, I'm fine.
John, as usual, doesn't seem convinced. "We should be patient, still," he says. "Allow your body to recover."
Nash snorts and rolls onto his back, the pillowcase dark where his damp hair had rested against it. "Patience," he says. "Much more of that and I'll go mad."
John doesn't answer. He lies still, stoic as ever.
"Feel like I am going mad, sometimes, being cooped up here," Nash tells him, after only a few minutes' more silence, staring at the strip of moonlight glowing bright across the ceiling. "It was the same, up in the mansion. Seeing the world only through a window, never feeling the breeze or feeling anything but floorboards beneath my feet ... it's maddening, John."
John hums softly and moves closer, draping his arm over his lover's thin body. Nash sighs.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he says. "I am grateful for the care you've given me. Goddamn lucky that you'll still have me, after all this time, after what I've done."
"Because I love you," John says, simply.
Nash hmphs. "God alone knows why," he says. "I just ... I can't help but wonder if perhaps this is my punishment for running about without thinking, first. A purgatory of doing nothing. Too dangerous outside the house, body too weak for me to get very far even if I did risk it ... seriously, John. I feel like I'm going mad."
John nods and tightens his arm around Nash's belly. "I'm sorry," he says, softly guilt twinging at the contentedness he feels, lying beside his lover, knowing that Nash is his, and his alone. "I wish there were something we could do to make it easier."
Nash sighs and doesn't answer.
~*~*~*~
In the stillness that follows, the soothing quiet of Nash breathing beside him, the trees rustling outside the window, an idea begins to trickle into John's consciousness. Slowly at first, tinged more like desperation than anything else. Memories of whispers, broken bits of overheard conversations; previously unclear intent behind questions asked of him by those who bought lemons from him at the market, confusing looks cast his way whenever he walked through town.
John's eyes widen when he realizes, all the pieces coming together like a transmutation, the truth standing before him, just as unbelievable as it is unmistakable.
"There may be a way," he says, before logic can inhibit the impulse to speak, "for you to leave the house. Perhaps only to come out to the orchard, but it would, at least, be a change of scenery."
Nash's body stiffens, waking from a shallow doze. "Tell me," he says.
John draws a deep breath. "There is a rumor," he says, slowly, "among the people of this town. I have heard of it for the past few weeks, but didn't realize ... ah. It is a bit complicated."
"Go on," says Nash.
John frowns. "It would seem that the people of this town have realized that I am no longer living alone. However, as they do now know the truth surrounding our ... circumstances, they believe that I have, in secret, taken a spouse."
"Spouse?" Nash echoes.
John nods. "Yes," he says.
"As in, a woman?" says Nash.
John's stomach does an odd little flip. It's a distinctly unpleasant feeling.
He clears his throat. "Yes," he says.
Nash pulls away from him, rolls onto his side so that he can see John, face-to-face. "There's a rumor going around town that I'm a woman?"
John shakes his head. "No," he says. "Only that I have taken in a woman, out of charity. I believe no one has yet gotten a very good look at you, and they have made their own ... assumptions."
One of Nash's eyebrows arches. "Assumptions," he repeats.
"Yes," says John. "They seem to believe, for whatever reason, that the woman I have taken in is one with a ... questionable past. That I have taken her in out of charity and am ... concealing her, out of concern for my social standing within the town."
Nash stares at him, motionless. "They think you've taken in a whore," he says, slowly. "A female whore."
John nods. "Yes," he says. "It would seem so."
Nash blinks at him, lying still for all of three seconds. Then he snarls and leaps out of bed, struggling far more vivaciously than his body can handle when John catches him and restrains him, strong and patient and stoic in the face of Nash's infuriated ranting.
"What in the name of God are they thinking? That's the most ridiculous goddamn thing I've ever heard in my life, John. Ridiculous! I'm going to go out there and tell them just how utterly stupid and insulting and offensive it is that they would even imagine such a thing. And on that thought, why is it that you've not set them straight? Doesn't it bother you, the notion that the whole town thinks you're a whoremonger with a softspot for destitute hookers? I'm serious John, that's ... that's ..."
John nods and tightens his arms around Nash's body, pulling the man close when Nash slumps, exhausted, the lingering fatigue of his illness and the exertions of their lovemaking sapping him of what's left of his strength. Carefully, he guides Nash back into bed, kissing him on the lips when Nash glares at him.
"I won't accept this, John," Nash tells him. "I won't. That's just ... no. I won't."
They lie together in the sudden quiet of the bedroom, at an impasse. Nash glares at the ceiling, stiffening when John draws breath to speak.
"At first, it upset me, as well," John says, slowly. "But after some thought, I have come to believe that it is a blessing. Mr. Mugear will think nothing of a prostitute living in this town. None of the women will seek your acquaintance because of your assumedly low social status. And none of the men will discuss the situation with me, for the sake of propriety. So long as they believe you are a prostitute, you are safe. You are free."
He strokes his hand down Nash's chest, feeling still-prominent ribs and the rapid thump of Nash's heart, his lover angry and hurt and embarrassed. Waits while Nash's stubborn nature wars with Nash's analytical mind, the stress of it clear in the tension of Nash's body.
"No one will ever suspect that Nash Tringham is alive," he says, softly. "Let alone suspect that you are living here, in Xenotime."
After what feels like hours, Nash pulls away, reaching for something in the darkness. When he returns, he's holding the photo of his children, the frame cool where it touches the back of John's wrist.
"I can't go back to my boys, like this, John," Nash says, quietly. "A failure, a debtor, an adulterer ... and now a woman, a ... a hooker ... I just can't. Not like this."
John closes his eyes and holds his lover close, hurting for him. "Nash-"
"But if I ... if we go along with this nonsense the idiots of this town have come up with," Nash continues, as though he's not heard John speak, "then maybe ... maybe I could make things right. Some things. Become the kind of man who's worthy of those children and their mother." He shifts, looking down at his lover, the photo resting flat against his belly. "Right?"
John doesn't look up at him. He nods, a different sort of hurt forming heavy in his chest.
"Absolutely," he says.
~*~*~*~
At peace for the first time in weeks, Nash sleeps through the night.
John watches over him until morning.
~*~
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥
(Belsio is voiced by the same guy who voices Riki, that's why. No I'm not completely cracked, just mostly.)
Anyway, that's not at all how it turned out, but I still like the story well enough and hope you will, as well. It's got a helluva lemon in it, so that's always a plus, right?
Right. Fulfills prompt #5, "on the nightstand" for 20_inkspots, which still hasn't gotten back to us yet on our request for membership. ;_;
Cheers!
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. ^_^
A Breath of Fresh Air
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John tends to his lover, even after Nash's body has recovered from the traumas it has endured. Watches over him carefully, and worries about him. Wonders how deep the wounds go that medicine and bed-rest cannot touch, how much of Nash's spirit has been broken beyond repair.
Nash doesn't seem to mind, much. He sits by the window in the bedroom during the day, staring blankly out at the lemon trees swaying in the evening breeze. In his hand, he holds a photo of his children, one that John happened to find in the pocket of his raincoat, weeks before, and on a whim set beside the bed during his convalescence.
Russel is smiling, in the photo, one hand resting on his younger brother's shoulder. Nash, also, is smiling, though not as wide as his son. And Fletcher, standing between them, looks as though he'd rather be elsewhere, his mouth open a bit, showing a gap where he's lost his two front teeth.
He looks very much like Nash did, as a child. So much so that it makes John feel nostalgic, his chest heavy with the emotion, every time he sees the photo, resting on the bedside table.
"Nash," he says, one evening, speaking quietly so as not to startle his lover out of whatever thoughts Nash has drowned himself in that day. "Supper is ready."
Nash draws a deep breath and looks up at him, blue eyes and gaunt cheeks and chapped lips, skin sallow even in the sunset's warm light. "Thanks," he says, pushing his chair back and rising.
Out of habit, John reaches for him, one hand on one of Nash's arms, just in case. Nash smiles and brushes it away, shaking his head as he returns the photo to the nightstand, setting it beside John's hairbrush.
"I'm fine, John," he says, softly, returning to John's side and kissing him on the corner of the mouth.
"Indeed," says John.
He doesn't argue with Nash, usually, because arguing with Nash is an unholy waste of time. Nash is a scientist by nature, a man of logic and rationality, a man whose work is built on the ability to argue one's point and defend it against opposition, and he doesn't hesitate to put into practice such skills, even when arguing something as simple as how much alcohol he should drink in the evenings, or how careful he should be with his body as it heals.
Nash is a grown man. John knows that he should trust him to do what's best, to take care of himself however he feels he should.
Still, it's hard.
Hard to let go when he's been holding on so very, very long.
They eat supper together in relative silence, nothing much to speak of on a day when neither of them has left the house, a day so painfully similar to the day before and the day before that, on and on until the days neither of them wants to remember. Days of fear and sickness and pain, days when John proved his love and Nash loved him for it, dying in John's bed. Once the meal is finished, they wash the dishes and sit by the fire, Nash staring blankly as he sips the wine John pours for them both, firelight throwing shadows across his face.
He blinks when John moves closer to him, as though he's been dreaming and isn't certain that he's woken. Starts to say something like John's name but stops when John kisses him, sets his wineglass aside and kisses John back, harder and rougher and deeper and better.
"Bed, John," he says, when his hand wanders up John's thigh and feels John's erection, warm through the trousers John wears, so deliciously tempting that it makes his mouth water. "Bed, please, John ..."
"Mmm," says John.
He tries to help Nash stand, reaching for Nash with something other than lustful impatience. Nash shakes him off.
"I can walk on my own," he says, soft but firm.
"Mmm," says John. He motions towards the bedroom. "Please."
They don't bother to light the lamp in the corner, the light from the hallway sufficient for them to see one another, John's dark eyes and Nash's pale skin, both of them visibly aroused already, erections tenting their pants. Nash relaxes back onto the mattress, lying in John's arms for what feels like the first time. He bites at John's throat, tasting the salt of sweat collected on the man's skin, the earthy flavor of the soap John makes himself to sell at market. A familiar scent, familiar flavor, the perfect complement to a familiar man.
Over him, John moans softly, eyes half-closed and lips parted, strong muscles thrown into perfect relief in the light of the moon rising pale over the trees. He's aged well, Nash thinks. Grown into a powerful man, one he's surprised to discover he's proud to know, proud to love. Proud to have, all to himself.
They've been careful of each other for so many days. Wary and gentle and stiffly polite, uncertain in a way they've not been in decades. Now, they recognize the need to reconcile, to finish this day as friends. As partners.
Lovers.
"John," Nash whispers, breathing across the mark he's sucked dark in the curve of John's neck.
"Mmm," John answers, lowering himself enough to rub against Nash, his erection stiff and hot, even though their trousers.
Nash bucks his hips, rubbing back, and gets a kiss for it, sloppy and wet and open-mouthed, John's reserved nature tinged with passion he shows nowhere else, around no one else. Here, in the home John can call his own, the home he's quietly offered to share with Nash, John makes no pretense, acting like the horny young man Nash fell in love with, years before, the lover Nash alone knows him to be.
"John, fuck me," he murmurs, when the scrub of his trousers against his cock starts to burn.
"Mmm," John answers, shuddering all over, jerking when Nash reaches between them to unbutton his pants.
They undress themselves, clothing tossed haphazardly to the floor, but before John can get his fingers, wet with oil, into Nash's body, they're kissing again, Nash's arms draped around John's neck, dragging John down with him, the bed squeaking in protest.
John laughs when Nash repeats his request. He doesn't need to point out that it's Nash's own fault that they're not yet making love. He knows that Nash knows already, and suspects that Nash knows that he knows, his suspicions confirmed by the little smile he kisses on Nash's lips, his middle finger pushing carefully into the tight heat of Nash's body.
It's been ages since they made love. Four years, nearly five. Nash's body isn't the only thing that's struggling to adjust.
Because it's difficult, for John. Honestly difficult to hold Nash in his arms and enter Nash with his fingers and kiss Nash with all the love and wanting and passion he feels, rushing through his entire being. There's fear and worry and resentment and guilt mixed in, as well. Memories far too fresh of Nash, weak and needy and fragile, lying in the very same bed they lie in now. Memories of praying, far more fervently than he's ever prayed before, that Nash would recover from his illness. Praying sometimes that Nash would simply wake from his sleep.
Once or twice, when things were the worst, praying that Nash would die, just to free him from his suffering.
Nash shivers beneath him and says his name. "Another," he prompts, gently. "Come on John, I'm not going to break."
John hums softly and pulls his finger out altogether. Carefully pours more oil onto it and his index finger, rubbing them together to spread the slick stuff around before lowering his hand, gently palming Nash's balls as he enters the man, once again.
He doesn't tell Nash that he's worried Nash will break. He doesn't tell Nash that he's seen him broken, before.
Instead, he kisses his lover on the mouth, reveling in the feel of stubble against his lips. Moves his hand so that his fingers fuck Nash. Not the rough sort of treatment Nash whimpers for, writhing beneath him; in fact, it's far more gentle than he fucked Nash when they were teenagers, desperate and horny and riding the adrenaline of sneaking around, stealing pleasure whenever and wherever they could.
It's enough, though. Nash's body relaxes and opens around John's fingers, accepting a third with no trouble, trembling hard when John rubs his prostate.
"John," he gasps. "John ... please."
That's enough, too.
John pulls his fingers free and slicks himself, the touch of his own hand to his own cock somehow different than it's been over the long lonely years he's had nothing more than it and his memories of Nash to satisfy him. More electric, more powerful. More arousing, but it's Nash's gaze on him, Nash's chest heaving as Nash watches him that does it.
"Yes," Nash breathes, when John looks up at him, the unspoken question bitter in his mouth. "Yes, John. Please."
He spreads his legs wide, toes curling against the mattress. His cock twitches, precome dripping down onto the pale skin of his belly.
Enough is nearly too much, then. John clears his throat and fumbles with the oil, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. It's been so long, so very, very long, and so much has happened, so much love and worry and grief and anger. So much passion, denied and ignored and suppressed. And Nash isn't helping, moving restlessly atop the bedsheets. Sighing and licking his lips. Stretching out his leg to tickle John's hip with the tip of his big toe.
John twists, stretching away from Nash to put the jar of lubricant back on the bedside table where it belongs. Tries to breathe slowly, to ease the throbbing want between his legs.
The photo catches his eye.
Nash, younger and far healthier than the Nash lying in his bed. Two boys, each in some way like a mirror image of their father.
John stares at it. Studies it. Really looks at it for the first time since he found it, rumpled in Nash's coat-pocket.
"John?"
He turns back to his lover, bends down to kiss Nash on the lips. Shifts their position on the bed so that his back is to the photo, his body blocking Nash's view of the bedside table altogether. Photos of people can't watch two old men make love, but still.
He's protected Nash from bullies and Alchemists and depression and death. Might as well protect him from the eyes of his children, too.
Nash groans when John enters him, finally. His body has forgotten John's, has forgotten how to relax and let John in, how to find arousal in the discomfort, pleasure in the stretch and sting. His erection wilts, lolling limply in the smear of precome, shrinking back into its foreskin. John notices and shifts, rocking his hips just the barest inch in and out of Nash's body as he scoops his lover's cock into his palm, teasing it back to life with a gentle rub of his thumb, a gentle squeeze of his hand.
It takes a moment, but slowly, Nash's body remembers. His entire body warms to life, his skin humming with feeling. His vision blurs, breath catching in his throat. His cock swells under John's touch, stiffening fully by the time John is seated fully inside him, hard and thick.
"Good," he whispers, bucking his hips under John's weight, reaching out to brace himself against John's strong shoulder. "Feels good."
"Mmm," says John.
They make love slowly, at first, Nash's feet braced against the bed and John's hips moving in a steady rhythm, cock entering Nash not quite all the way, pulling out until the head's all that's inside. Gentle enough that it's not quite lustful, John's mind clear enough that he can watch Nash for any signs of discomfort, any sign that he needs to stop.
Nash takes it for all of three minutes. Then, he takes matters into his own hands.
"John," he murmurs, lifting his legs, John's strong chest cradled between his thighs. "John, faster."
John says nothing, always the quieter partner in bed. He puts both hands to Nash's sides and strokes them down, fingers bumping over each of Nash's ribs, a silent testimony of lingering fear and worry. But before Nash can form an impatient reassurance, John's hands tighten, holding him steady for a strong forward thrust, one which makes the bed squeak, makes Nash's vision blur.
"Ngh," he groans, his hand falling away from his cock, instead bracing him against John's body. "Yes, like that ..."
It's not faster, per se, but it's damned good. Slow and hard and just a little bit painful, John's back stiff from a long day of lifting heavy crates in the storage cellar, Nash's body stretched tight around him. Nash arches up and pushes down, writhing under John's weight, John watching him all the while, breathing hard, muscles trembling with exertion and desire.
He comes first, groaning loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. Arches his back and closes his eyes, cock pulsing hard against the tight muscle of Nash's ass. Comes while Nash watches him, the novelty of not being alone just as thrilling and breathtaking as the rush of orgasm, the flood of release spreading throughout his body.
Nash tightens around him when John finishes with a gasping sigh, trembling from exertion. "Stay inside," he orders, wrapping his hand around his own cock and pumping it, hard enough that the bedframe shudders under them, rocking against the bedroom wall. "S-stay in. 'M close."
"Mmm," says John.
He does as Nash tells him to, his cock still lodged deep in Nash's body, even as he begins to soften. He watches Nash masturbate and does what he can to add to the pleasure, stroking his hands up Nash's sides, rubbing his thumbs over Nash's nipples. Touches everywhere he can reach, distracting himself from friction that's very nearly too much, Nash's body spasming intimately around him.
Nash comes after only a few minutes, arching hard enough that John slips out of him completely, wet and sticky. Semen stripes his chest and belly, white against his pale skin, John's smearing the inside of his thighs, the curve of his buttocks. He moans through the last tremors of it, semen dribbling over the back of is hand and down his wrist, his eyes dark and unfocused when John bends to kiss him.
"Love you too," he whispers against John's mouth, when John murmurs the sentiment to him.
He doesn't much like being helped out of bed and across the hall to the bath. Opens his mouth to tell John that he's fine, that if he can get fucked then he can walk and bathe on his own.
But then John steps into the bath with him, and Nash decides his objections don't matter quite so much anymore.
~*~*~*~
Warm and clean and dizzy from the hot shower, Nash stumbles in the bathroom, falling to the cool tiles with no grace at all, his knees aching as John bends to help him up, his previous worry replaced with unrestrained fear, written clearly across his face.
"I'm fine," Nash reassures him. "Seriously, John, I'm fine."
John keeps an arm around him as they walk back to the bedroom, anyway. Doesn't dress until Nash has dressed in his sleeping pants and lain down, small and frail-looking all alone in John's bed. Nash doesn't fight him, the haunted look in John's eyes enough to quiet his protests, allowing the man the comfort of caring for him, of knowing he's done something, at least.
He stares at the dark wall of the bedroom, the curtains shifting where the window doesn't quite seal, lost in thought when John joins him in bed. He jumps when John touches him, hand resting lightly on his belly, lacing their fingers together with a murmur of relax, I'm fine.
John, as usual, doesn't seem convinced. "We should be patient, still," he says. "Allow your body to recover."
Nash snorts and rolls onto his back, the pillowcase dark where his damp hair had rested against it. "Patience," he says. "Much more of that and I'll go mad."
John doesn't answer. He lies still, stoic as ever.
"Feel like I am going mad, sometimes, being cooped up here," Nash tells him, after only a few minutes' more silence, staring at the strip of moonlight glowing bright across the ceiling. "It was the same, up in the mansion. Seeing the world only through a window, never feeling the breeze or feeling anything but floorboards beneath my feet ... it's maddening, John."
John hums softly and moves closer, draping his arm over his lover's thin body. Nash sighs.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he says. "I am grateful for the care you've given me. Goddamn lucky that you'll still have me, after all this time, after what I've done."
"Because I love you," John says, simply.
Nash hmphs. "God alone knows why," he says. "I just ... I can't help but wonder if perhaps this is my punishment for running about without thinking, first. A purgatory of doing nothing. Too dangerous outside the house, body too weak for me to get very far even if I did risk it ... seriously, John. I feel like I'm going mad."
John nods and tightens his arm around Nash's belly. "I'm sorry," he says, softly guilt twinging at the contentedness he feels, lying beside his lover, knowing that Nash is his, and his alone. "I wish there were something we could do to make it easier."
Nash sighs and doesn't answer.
~*~*~*~
In the stillness that follows, the soothing quiet of Nash breathing beside him, the trees rustling outside the window, an idea begins to trickle into John's consciousness. Slowly at first, tinged more like desperation than anything else. Memories of whispers, broken bits of overheard conversations; previously unclear intent behind questions asked of him by those who bought lemons from him at the market, confusing looks cast his way whenever he walked through town.
John's eyes widen when he realizes, all the pieces coming together like a transmutation, the truth standing before him, just as unbelievable as it is unmistakable.
"There may be a way," he says, before logic can inhibit the impulse to speak, "for you to leave the house. Perhaps only to come out to the orchard, but it would, at least, be a change of scenery."
Nash's body stiffens, waking from a shallow doze. "Tell me," he says.
John draws a deep breath. "There is a rumor," he says, slowly, "among the people of this town. I have heard of it for the past few weeks, but didn't realize ... ah. It is a bit complicated."
"Go on," says Nash.
John frowns. "It would seem that the people of this town have realized that I am no longer living alone. However, as they do now know the truth surrounding our ... circumstances, they believe that I have, in secret, taken a spouse."
"Spouse?" Nash echoes.
John nods. "Yes," he says.
"As in, a woman?" says Nash.
John's stomach does an odd little flip. It's a distinctly unpleasant feeling.
He clears his throat. "Yes," he says.
Nash pulls away from him, rolls onto his side so that he can see John, face-to-face. "There's a rumor going around town that I'm a woman?"
John shakes his head. "No," he says. "Only that I have taken in a woman, out of charity. I believe no one has yet gotten a very good look at you, and they have made their own ... assumptions."
One of Nash's eyebrows arches. "Assumptions," he repeats.
"Yes," says John. "They seem to believe, for whatever reason, that the woman I have taken in is one with a ... questionable past. That I have taken her in out of charity and am ... concealing her, out of concern for my social standing within the town."
Nash stares at him, motionless. "They think you've taken in a whore," he says, slowly. "A female whore."
John nods. "Yes," he says. "It would seem so."
Nash blinks at him, lying still for all of three seconds. Then he snarls and leaps out of bed, struggling far more vivaciously than his body can handle when John catches him and restrains him, strong and patient and stoic in the face of Nash's infuriated ranting.
"What in the name of God are they thinking? That's the most ridiculous goddamn thing I've ever heard in my life, John. Ridiculous! I'm going to go out there and tell them just how utterly stupid and insulting and offensive it is that they would even imagine such a thing. And on that thought, why is it that you've not set them straight? Doesn't it bother you, the notion that the whole town thinks you're a whoremonger with a softspot for destitute hookers? I'm serious John, that's ... that's ..."
John nods and tightens his arms around Nash's body, pulling the man close when Nash slumps, exhausted, the lingering fatigue of his illness and the exertions of their lovemaking sapping him of what's left of his strength. Carefully, he guides Nash back into bed, kissing him on the lips when Nash glares at him.
"I won't accept this, John," Nash tells him. "I won't. That's just ... no. I won't."
They lie together in the sudden quiet of the bedroom, at an impasse. Nash glares at the ceiling, stiffening when John draws breath to speak.
"At first, it upset me, as well," John says, slowly. "But after some thought, I have come to believe that it is a blessing. Mr. Mugear will think nothing of a prostitute living in this town. None of the women will seek your acquaintance because of your assumedly low social status. And none of the men will discuss the situation with me, for the sake of propriety. So long as they believe you are a prostitute, you are safe. You are free."
He strokes his hand down Nash's chest, feeling still-prominent ribs and the rapid thump of Nash's heart, his lover angry and hurt and embarrassed. Waits while Nash's stubborn nature wars with Nash's analytical mind, the stress of it clear in the tension of Nash's body.
"No one will ever suspect that Nash Tringham is alive," he says, softly. "Let alone suspect that you are living here, in Xenotime."
After what feels like hours, Nash pulls away, reaching for something in the darkness. When he returns, he's holding the photo of his children, the frame cool where it touches the back of John's wrist.
"I can't go back to my boys, like this, John," Nash says, quietly. "A failure, a debtor, an adulterer ... and now a woman, a ... a hooker ... I just can't. Not like this."
John closes his eyes and holds his lover close, hurting for him. "Nash-"
"But if I ... if we go along with this nonsense the idiots of this town have come up with," Nash continues, as though he's not heard John speak, "then maybe ... maybe I could make things right. Some things. Become the kind of man who's worthy of those children and their mother." He shifts, looking down at his lover, the photo resting flat against his belly. "Right?"
John doesn't look up at him. He nods, a different sort of hurt forming heavy in his chest.
"Absolutely," he says.
~*~*~*~
At peace for the first time in weeks, Nash sleeps through the night.
John watches over him until morning.
~*~
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥