Fullmetal Alchemist, "Timeless," Belsio/Nash, PG
Ah, the olde OTP of happy. How it has claimed my very being, of late!
(Toby and Jovial are Not Pleased with the situation, but that's fine. They can deal.)
In short, another contribution to the 20_inkspots challenge, this one satisfying prompt #18, "Stepping Stones." Perhaps a bit of a stretch on my interpretation of the theme, here, but I think you'll be able to figure it out just fine.
No porn in this one, sorry. I was in a domestic mood when I wrote it, or something, 'cause it's cuddly. Read, enjoy, comment, you know how it is. ^_~
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. ^_^
Timeless
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John Belsio sits by the fire in the evenings, updating his records.
He's got a book for it. A book of records, most of which are related to the growth of his trees, the yield of fruit, the changes in the weather. He's kept records like these ever since he took over responsibility for the orchard, years before, noting important changes and dates and events just as his predecessor taught him to do. And now, because of that, nearly sixty years of records rest in his lap. Sixty years of saplings and harvests and sunshine and rain. Sixty years of seasons and labor and sweat and love.
The pages of the book are yellowed and curled, the ink fading from the earliest pages, just barely readable. The leather binding is old and rough, darkened and stained with age.
Nearby, his lover sits on the sofa, sandwiched between his children. They speak softly, respectful of Belsio's need to concentrate on his work, the three of them huddled close together as they look through an old photo album, something Nash discovered in the attic, a treasure Belsio had forgotten he had.
Belsio's attention is drawn to his family, like a moth to the lamp glowing at Fletcher's end of the sofa. He glances up from his work just as Fletcher reaches across himself to point to one of the photos, snuggling closer to his father in the process.
"You look like Brother, there," Fletcher says, quietly.
Nash meets Belsio's gaze, briefly, and smiles, looking back down at the photo his son has picked out. "I do indeed," he agrees, lifting his hand to ruffle Russel's hair fondly. "No question about your paternity, I suppose," he tells the older teen. "You're stuck with me."
Russel flushes red and hides behind his hair. Belsio watches him, biting the inside of his lip to keep from grinning. Russel is just growing into the stage where he's old enough to be embarrassed by his father's affection, but young enough to crave it still, his teenaged angst broadcast so clearly in his body language that it's nearly painful to see.
Belsio endures. It is nothing new to him after all. It's been years since he's seen it, but he has, indeed, seen it before.
Russel has more in common with his father than a faded black-and-white photograph, certainly.
Nash Tringham, at age seventeen, blushed just as badly when kissed quiet, times when his lover was no longer willing to patiently listen to him complain hotly about Xenotime, no longer willing to hear his statements of leaving and never coming back. And then, when Belsio held him close, murmuring that Nash would be sorely, sorely missed, were he to leave and never come back, Nash stiffened and grumbled and ended up returning Belsio's affection, usually with even more passion and vigor and honest yearning than Belsio himself had felt to begin with.
It's different, perhaps, the memory of Nash's affection from the way Russel grudgingly returns his father's affection, but it's affection, nonetheless.
Russel brushes his hair out of his eyes and reaches across his father to tweak Fletcher's nose, pressing heavily against Nash in the process. Fletcher squeaks and buries his face in the sleeve of his father's shirt, giggling when Nash tweaks Russel's nose in return.
Belsio watches the entire exchange side-long, tapping his pen against the arm of his chair a few times before an idea lodges itself in his brain, pestering him badly enough that he leaves his recording of the past few days' rainfall unfinished, instead writing dates in the margin of his page.
It's been nineteen years, he decides, after half a page of figuring. Nineteen long years.
Nineteen years since he first discovered that he very much liked seeing Nash stripped down to nothing but his undershorts and dripping wet, that he was aroused by the sight of said shorts clinging to Nash's thighs and buttocks, dripping water down Nash's skinny legs.
Nineteen years since he first thought of Nash while he masturbated, lying in bed at night, imagining Nash's lips against his own, Nash's hands, terribly pale from the hours he spent indoors studying Alchemy, touching him all over.
Nineteen years since he first risked kissing his best friend, surprise and relief warring for dominance in his mind when Nash responded eagerly, returning his affection with more enthusiasm than even the wildest of his fantasies could have prepared him to receive.
Things have changed, since then, to some extent.
Belsio looks up from his notes, changing his body's position to ease a muscle spasm in the small of his back. His lover is telling a story now, gesturing with his right hand as he tells his children about a time when he fell into the river after a storm and was rescued by Belsio's father. He describes the rain, the trees, the roar of the water, his memory and his words so vivid that Belsio shivers, remembering as well. The boys listen to him with rapt attention, eyes wide and shoulders tense as their father reaches the climax of the story, his deep voice washing over them, rich and warm as firelight.
Nothing like the soft tone he'd had as an adolescent boy. No longer shy and awkward, his voice breaking whenever he was called upon to speak up.
To Belsio, however, Nash himself remains unchanged. To Belsio, he's the same loving, wonderful man. Still thoughtful and brilliant and painfully analytical, pale from the protection his ridiculous hat gives him, whenever he helps out in the orchard alongside his children. Still quirky and prone to nervous habits, his sock-soft toes flexing against the sitting room rug, his left thumb rubbing at the spot where his wedding ring once rested.
It's been six years since Nash has worn anything there.
Six years since he first returned to Xenotime, broken and hollow and lost, slinking around like a shadow in the rain.
Six years since he first confessed to Belsio that leaving home had been a mistake, his words slurred as he drank the whiskey his friend bought for him, whiskey he was too indebted to pay for, himself.
Six years since he first woke in Belsio's bed, nude and sore and hung-over and closer to tears than Belsio had ever seen him, before, as the reality of the adultery he'd committed the night before began to sink into his brilliant mind.
The regret he feels over his infidelity-over their infidelity-has not changed, over those six years. Belsio knows. Knows that it bothers him. Knows that's what surfaces sometimes on the rare evenings when he drinks, knows that's often what haunts him in his nightmares.
Nash's children are his penance, in a sense. His way of paying his respects to his wife, a woman Belsio has heard much about but never met. His way of apologizing to her, day in and day out, for the passion he never showed her, the love he could never give her.
Belsio understands. And he prays fervently that the boys will never, ever-even in their wildest thoughts-begin to suspect it.
The sofa creaks softly when Fletcher yawns and curls his legs up under him, nesting against his father like a kitten. He insists, when Nash kisses the top of his head and murmurs something about bedtime, that he's not tired enough to sleep, that he's just worn out from all the lifting he and his brother did, earlier that day while rearranging the fruit cellar. Nash chuckles and tells him if you say so, smiling sidelong at Belsio over the fringe of Fletcher's unruly hair.
He treasures time spent with his children. Craves it, just as much as the boys seem to crave time with their father, time with his attention focused on them, undivided.
Belsio understands. It's only been three years for the boys, after all.
Three years since they first left their home in Central City, alone and naïve and determined to finish the work of a man neither knew well but both called father.
Three years since they first met Belsio, introducing themselves as Edward and Alphonse and blushing when Belsio answered their introductions with a wide-eyed, unbelieving stare.
Three years since they first stepped into the old farmhouse, orphaned yet again and terrified, carrying nothing with them past the clothing on their backs and Nash's dimples in their cheeks, the latter of which stayed hidden until hours later, when Belsio had them fed and warm and safe and relaxed enough to smile.
Sometimes, it seems to Belsio that everything has changed, since then.
Russel no longer has to stretch up on tip-toe during the day to reach the baskets hung high on the wall of the toolshed, nor in the evenings to reach the high cupboard where the salad bowls are kept. No longer drops his gaze when Edward Elric's name is mentioned, instead holding his head high as he reports the news Edward has sent him in his most recent letter, detailing his research and travels.
Fletcher no longer bears the scars of the Red Water, neither coughing at night nor wheezing when he runs around too much during the day, working in the fields or playing tag with Elisa. No longer sneaks into his brother's bed in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares that once left him sobbing loudly enough to wake everyone in the house.
Belsio smiles and looks down at his book, hesitating just a breath before making a note, just under the record of his trees' growth, that Russel is nearly as tall as his father, now. That Fletcher has outgrown yet another pair of trousers and will soon be able to wear his brother's hand-me-downs without rolling up the hem at all. Pauses a moment, then notes also that Nash's hair is still as thick and coarse as ever, though his beard shows signs of silvering, mornings when he wakes late and doesn't bother to shave.
He doesn't mention the streaks of grey in his own hair, the lines at the corners of his eyes and around the edges of his mouth. Doesn't mention the stiffness in his shoulders or the difficulty he's been having, lately, reading the newspaper without his glasses.
To him, such things are neither new nor interesting and are certainly not worth recording in his book.
"I think I'm for bed," he says, once he's made his notes, rising to return his book to its place on the shelf.
"Bed sounds good," says Nash, nodding. "We should probably all turn in."
The boys don't argue, yawning and stretching as they walk down the hall together, elbowing each other in a friendly fight for dominance of the sink as they stand side-by-side to brush their teeth.
Before bed, Fletcher gives his father a goodnight hug, just as he's done every night for the past three years. Belsio stands by, watching, half-tempted to make note in his book that Fletcher's head rests against Nash's chest when they hug, no longer only reaching up to the man's breastbone.
He resists the impulse, making mental note to write it down in the morning.
Russel has never, in the time Belsio has known him, hugged his father before going to bed. He does, however, pause outside the bedroom, fingers loosely gripping the doorframe.
"'Night, Dad," he says.
His voice is beginning to take on the same rich warmth of his father's, Belsio notes. Heavily tinted by the same Xenotime accent, deep and soothing with the same musical lilt.
"Goodnight, Son," says Nash.
"Goodnight, Russel," says Belsio, without thinking.
Nash glances at him sidelong. Russel blushes.
"See you in the morning," he says.
Then he disappears into the bedroom and closes the door, leaving Nash grinning and Belsio blushing, avoiding his lover's gaze as they return to the sitting room for a glass of scotch before bed.
"About time he started calling you that," says Nash, finishing his drink and setting the empty glass on the coffee table, the clunk of glass-against-wood oddly loud in the quiet of the room. "Surprised it took him this long."
Belsio sips his drink. "Mhn," he says.
Nash sighs and leans close, head resting on his lover's shoulder. "Sometimes, it's hard to believe how much he's grown," he says. "How much both of them have grown."
"Mhn," says Belsio.
"Sometimes," says Nash. "Sometimes ..."
He drifts to sleep, flushed from the alcohol and drooling a little, warm and heavy at Belsio's side. Belsio watches the fire and listens to his lover breathe, lost in his thoughts and the comfort of his home.
It's only been a few days since he's last felt so content. Only a few days since he sat with his lover and was at peace, safe and loved and genuinely happy.
All the same, he revels in it. Memorizes the feel of it, the utter simplicity of it.
In the thirty-nine years of his life, he can easily claim these ten minutes to be among his happiest, his best. He closes his eyes and wishes it would last forever.
And for once, time is willing to stand still. Even if only for awhile.
~*~
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥
(Toby and Jovial are Not Pleased with the situation, but that's fine. They can deal.)
In short, another contribution to the 20_inkspots challenge, this one satisfying prompt #18, "Stepping Stones." Perhaps a bit of a stretch on my interpretation of the theme, here, but I think you'll be able to figure it out just fine.
No porn in this one, sorry. I was in a domestic mood when I wrote it, or something, 'cause it's cuddly. Read, enjoy, comment, you know how it is. ^_~
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. ^_^
Timeless
by Mistr3ss Quickly
John Belsio sits by the fire in the evenings, updating his records.
He's got a book for it. A book of records, most of which are related to the growth of his trees, the yield of fruit, the changes in the weather. He's kept records like these ever since he took over responsibility for the orchard, years before, noting important changes and dates and events just as his predecessor taught him to do. And now, because of that, nearly sixty years of records rest in his lap. Sixty years of saplings and harvests and sunshine and rain. Sixty years of seasons and labor and sweat and love.
The pages of the book are yellowed and curled, the ink fading from the earliest pages, just barely readable. The leather binding is old and rough, darkened and stained with age.
Nearby, his lover sits on the sofa, sandwiched between his children. They speak softly, respectful of Belsio's need to concentrate on his work, the three of them huddled close together as they look through an old photo album, something Nash discovered in the attic, a treasure Belsio had forgotten he had.
Belsio's attention is drawn to his family, like a moth to the lamp glowing at Fletcher's end of the sofa. He glances up from his work just as Fletcher reaches across himself to point to one of the photos, snuggling closer to his father in the process.
"You look like Brother, there," Fletcher says, quietly.
Nash meets Belsio's gaze, briefly, and smiles, looking back down at the photo his son has picked out. "I do indeed," he agrees, lifting his hand to ruffle Russel's hair fondly. "No question about your paternity, I suppose," he tells the older teen. "You're stuck with me."
Russel flushes red and hides behind his hair. Belsio watches him, biting the inside of his lip to keep from grinning. Russel is just growing into the stage where he's old enough to be embarrassed by his father's affection, but young enough to crave it still, his teenaged angst broadcast so clearly in his body language that it's nearly painful to see.
Belsio endures. It is nothing new to him after all. It's been years since he's seen it, but he has, indeed, seen it before.
Russel has more in common with his father than a faded black-and-white photograph, certainly.
Nash Tringham, at age seventeen, blushed just as badly when kissed quiet, times when his lover was no longer willing to patiently listen to him complain hotly about Xenotime, no longer willing to hear his statements of leaving and never coming back. And then, when Belsio held him close, murmuring that Nash would be sorely, sorely missed, were he to leave and never come back, Nash stiffened and grumbled and ended up returning Belsio's affection, usually with even more passion and vigor and honest yearning than Belsio himself had felt to begin with.
It's different, perhaps, the memory of Nash's affection from the way Russel grudgingly returns his father's affection, but it's affection, nonetheless.
Russel brushes his hair out of his eyes and reaches across his father to tweak Fletcher's nose, pressing heavily against Nash in the process. Fletcher squeaks and buries his face in the sleeve of his father's shirt, giggling when Nash tweaks Russel's nose in return.
Belsio watches the entire exchange side-long, tapping his pen against the arm of his chair a few times before an idea lodges itself in his brain, pestering him badly enough that he leaves his recording of the past few days' rainfall unfinished, instead writing dates in the margin of his page.
It's been nineteen years, he decides, after half a page of figuring. Nineteen long years.
Nineteen years since he first discovered that he very much liked seeing Nash stripped down to nothing but his undershorts and dripping wet, that he was aroused by the sight of said shorts clinging to Nash's thighs and buttocks, dripping water down Nash's skinny legs.
Nineteen years since he first thought of Nash while he masturbated, lying in bed at night, imagining Nash's lips against his own, Nash's hands, terribly pale from the hours he spent indoors studying Alchemy, touching him all over.
Nineteen years since he first risked kissing his best friend, surprise and relief warring for dominance in his mind when Nash responded eagerly, returning his affection with more enthusiasm than even the wildest of his fantasies could have prepared him to receive.
Things have changed, since then, to some extent.
Belsio looks up from his notes, changing his body's position to ease a muscle spasm in the small of his back. His lover is telling a story now, gesturing with his right hand as he tells his children about a time when he fell into the river after a storm and was rescued by Belsio's father. He describes the rain, the trees, the roar of the water, his memory and his words so vivid that Belsio shivers, remembering as well. The boys listen to him with rapt attention, eyes wide and shoulders tense as their father reaches the climax of the story, his deep voice washing over them, rich and warm as firelight.
Nothing like the soft tone he'd had as an adolescent boy. No longer shy and awkward, his voice breaking whenever he was called upon to speak up.
To Belsio, however, Nash himself remains unchanged. To Belsio, he's the same loving, wonderful man. Still thoughtful and brilliant and painfully analytical, pale from the protection his ridiculous hat gives him, whenever he helps out in the orchard alongside his children. Still quirky and prone to nervous habits, his sock-soft toes flexing against the sitting room rug, his left thumb rubbing at the spot where his wedding ring once rested.
It's been six years since Nash has worn anything there.
Six years since he first returned to Xenotime, broken and hollow and lost, slinking around like a shadow in the rain.
Six years since he first confessed to Belsio that leaving home had been a mistake, his words slurred as he drank the whiskey his friend bought for him, whiskey he was too indebted to pay for, himself.
Six years since he first woke in Belsio's bed, nude and sore and hung-over and closer to tears than Belsio had ever seen him, before, as the reality of the adultery he'd committed the night before began to sink into his brilliant mind.
The regret he feels over his infidelity-over their infidelity-has not changed, over those six years. Belsio knows. Knows that it bothers him. Knows that's what surfaces sometimes on the rare evenings when he drinks, knows that's often what haunts him in his nightmares.
Nash's children are his penance, in a sense. His way of paying his respects to his wife, a woman Belsio has heard much about but never met. His way of apologizing to her, day in and day out, for the passion he never showed her, the love he could never give her.
Belsio understands. And he prays fervently that the boys will never, ever-even in their wildest thoughts-begin to suspect it.
The sofa creaks softly when Fletcher yawns and curls his legs up under him, nesting against his father like a kitten. He insists, when Nash kisses the top of his head and murmurs something about bedtime, that he's not tired enough to sleep, that he's just worn out from all the lifting he and his brother did, earlier that day while rearranging the fruit cellar. Nash chuckles and tells him if you say so, smiling sidelong at Belsio over the fringe of Fletcher's unruly hair.
He treasures time spent with his children. Craves it, just as much as the boys seem to crave time with their father, time with his attention focused on them, undivided.
Belsio understands. It's only been three years for the boys, after all.
Three years since they first left their home in Central City, alone and naïve and determined to finish the work of a man neither knew well but both called father.
Three years since they first met Belsio, introducing themselves as Edward and Alphonse and blushing when Belsio answered their introductions with a wide-eyed, unbelieving stare.
Three years since they first stepped into the old farmhouse, orphaned yet again and terrified, carrying nothing with them past the clothing on their backs and Nash's dimples in their cheeks, the latter of which stayed hidden until hours later, when Belsio had them fed and warm and safe and relaxed enough to smile.
Sometimes, it seems to Belsio that everything has changed, since then.
Russel no longer has to stretch up on tip-toe during the day to reach the baskets hung high on the wall of the toolshed, nor in the evenings to reach the high cupboard where the salad bowls are kept. No longer drops his gaze when Edward Elric's name is mentioned, instead holding his head high as he reports the news Edward has sent him in his most recent letter, detailing his research and travels.
Fletcher no longer bears the scars of the Red Water, neither coughing at night nor wheezing when he runs around too much during the day, working in the fields or playing tag with Elisa. No longer sneaks into his brother's bed in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares that once left him sobbing loudly enough to wake everyone in the house.
Belsio smiles and looks down at his book, hesitating just a breath before making a note, just under the record of his trees' growth, that Russel is nearly as tall as his father, now. That Fletcher has outgrown yet another pair of trousers and will soon be able to wear his brother's hand-me-downs without rolling up the hem at all. Pauses a moment, then notes also that Nash's hair is still as thick and coarse as ever, though his beard shows signs of silvering, mornings when he wakes late and doesn't bother to shave.
He doesn't mention the streaks of grey in his own hair, the lines at the corners of his eyes and around the edges of his mouth. Doesn't mention the stiffness in his shoulders or the difficulty he's been having, lately, reading the newspaper without his glasses.
To him, such things are neither new nor interesting and are certainly not worth recording in his book.
"I think I'm for bed," he says, once he's made his notes, rising to return his book to its place on the shelf.
"Bed sounds good," says Nash, nodding. "We should probably all turn in."
The boys don't argue, yawning and stretching as they walk down the hall together, elbowing each other in a friendly fight for dominance of the sink as they stand side-by-side to brush their teeth.
Before bed, Fletcher gives his father a goodnight hug, just as he's done every night for the past three years. Belsio stands by, watching, half-tempted to make note in his book that Fletcher's head rests against Nash's chest when they hug, no longer only reaching up to the man's breastbone.
He resists the impulse, making mental note to write it down in the morning.
Russel has never, in the time Belsio has known him, hugged his father before going to bed. He does, however, pause outside the bedroom, fingers loosely gripping the doorframe.
"'Night, Dad," he says.
His voice is beginning to take on the same rich warmth of his father's, Belsio notes. Heavily tinted by the same Xenotime accent, deep and soothing with the same musical lilt.
"Goodnight, Son," says Nash.
"Goodnight, Russel," says Belsio, without thinking.
Nash glances at him sidelong. Russel blushes.
"See you in the morning," he says.
Then he disappears into the bedroom and closes the door, leaving Nash grinning and Belsio blushing, avoiding his lover's gaze as they return to the sitting room for a glass of scotch before bed.
"About time he started calling you that," says Nash, finishing his drink and setting the empty glass on the coffee table, the clunk of glass-against-wood oddly loud in the quiet of the room. "Surprised it took him this long."
Belsio sips his drink. "Mhn," he says.
Nash sighs and leans close, head resting on his lover's shoulder. "Sometimes, it's hard to believe how much he's grown," he says. "How much both of them have grown."
"Mhn," says Belsio.
"Sometimes," says Nash. "Sometimes ..."
He drifts to sleep, flushed from the alcohol and drooling a little, warm and heavy at Belsio's side. Belsio watches the fire and listens to his lover breathe, lost in his thoughts and the comfort of his home.
It's only been a few days since he's last felt so content. Only a few days since he sat with his lover and was at peace, safe and loved and genuinely happy.
All the same, he revels in it. Memorizes the feel of it, the utter simplicity of it.
In the thirty-nine years of his life, he can easily claim these ten minutes to be among his happiest, his best. He closes his eyes and wishes it would last forever.
And for once, time is willing to stand still. Even if only for awhile.
~*~
Art by goldphish_bowl ♥