Sixteen years old, and Russel Tringham was more like his father than he'd ever know. Already an accomplished alchemist and traveler, Russel had come from Central to Xenotime, then there and back again.
Russel's eyes were the same blue, and slowly darkening, his hair was the same dishwater blonde. Belsio wanted so badly to be able to run his fingers through that choppy, messy hair again.
At wits end, he'd do almost anything to have Nash back.
Selfish, yes, but John Belsio wanted something that could be his and no other's. So no matter the understanding words offered, assuring Nash that all was well, despite the fact that the alchemist had wed--Belsio would never find end to his bitterness towards that woman Nash had married. Just when Nash's priorities in his sciences stepped aside to give Belsio precedence, Nash left town and thus, -she- came along. The man would never be Belsio's alone again. He'd never been too terribly good at sharing, after all. Though by no stretch was Belsio exceptionally greedy, but when you'd been born with little, you clung desperately to what you had.
Work took Nash to Central. Vows bound him there. And even when he finally returned to Xenotime, Nash met his end, simply for trying to stand up and do the honest thing... Trying to save lives, it cost him his own...
Belsio would see no light, no hope for retribution for years--not until Nash's children would appear on the town's doorstep, wearing the name of Elric instead of Tringham.
Mugear died not but a few months after their arrival, and the Tringham brothers came under Belsio's roof not but hours after that.
Back in Xenotime...they were back. A bittersweet relief, Belsio could now clear out the orchard with the ease of extra hands, though every moment, he'd be able to think of little but their father...
Russel's fifteenth birthday passed in Central City, as he tried for the research grant that never panned out. And his sixteenth passed back in Xenotime--marked by a congratulatory slap on the back and a stern reminder that autumn leaves don't rake themselves.
Sixteen years old, and Belsio would swear some days that he was reliving the past. Out in the orchard, Russel would pause in his work, raking a hand through his hair, his bangs never quiet long enough to tuck behind his ears. And as Belsio caught himself staring yet again, he'd notice the width to Russel's shoulders that hadn't been there two years ago. In his arms, Russel had some definition that Nash never did, though the two of them had always been hopelessly thin.
The two even sounded the same.
When Russel laughed, he'd take on that same rough-around-the-edges tenor as Nash had. He'd advise Fletcher in whatever the boy was up to, making Belsio wonder if Fletcher was even old enough to recall what his father's voice sounded like.
Russel fretted like Nash as well.
Despite his turn down in Central, every now and then, Belsio caught Russel holed away at the dining room table, fussing over research notes, trying to tug sense out of the senseless and tangled alchemical equations.
"He had to have been lying to me..." Russel muttered under his breath, brows knitted in frustration. Seated at the table, he chewed at his pencil's eraser, glaring at the chicken scratch in front of him. "He just have to have been...where else does that extra carbon come from?" he glared at the notes, rubbing his chin--a fine stubble setting in, as no one had ever properly taught Russel to shave.
"Maybe you should take a break with that." Belsio noted, clapping a hand onto the young man's shoulder. He couldn't help but chuckle when Russel jumped in his seat.
"A break?" Russel groaned. "I'm close, I know I am..."
As with the times before, Belsio rolled his eyes--a gesture lost to Russel--eyes still his glued to his notes. "Russel, your brother's already gone to bed. Take after his example for once, hm?"
Russel loosed another annoyed groan, tossing a frustrated look to the papers on the table.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Belsio waited, and Russel finally got up, shoving the chair back into place in his wake. Belsio chuckled, watching Russel disappear into the kitchen, leaving Belsio to return to his bedroom, where he'd finally kick off his shoes for the night, and perhaps get a little reading done before he too would turn in for the night.
A prologue and two chapters later, when he'd heard no indication that Russel had ever returned to his own room, Belsio left his book to go check up on the boy. He found Russel on the living room couch, barely awake, with face flushed and a glass on the coffee table--a ring of condensation formed around the bottom, wrinkling the old and forgotten letters under it. Only ice was left behind, but picking up the glass for further inspection, it was hard -not- to catch the smell of whiskey off it. Jaw slack and eyes wide, Belsio'd shot a look to the inebriated Tringham on the couch. "--Russel Tring--"
"--S'only one glass..." Russel murmured, waving a heavy hand dismissively.
Sixteen years old--by all technicalities, Russel was old enough to drink in Xenotime. But at the same time...one drink and the boy was already under...
Nash could never hold his liquor either--Belsio's inner voice reminded him. Anger wouldn't stick, thus, he sighed, speaking before thought could properly cycle through. Like with his old lover, Belsio said what he always had. "Come to bed." --and immediately realized his folly. There was no paternal command to 'go to bed', but rather a reflexive 'come to bed'.
Before the man could correct himself somehow, Russel would chuckle, smirking as he caught Belsio's gaze. "I see..." he grinned. "No such thing as a free lunch, huh? The help in the orchard not enough?"
Belsio could not manage out any sort of reply.
Still wearing his catty smirk, Russel rose up and on uneasy steps, managed over to his guardian, a hand fisting in the front of the man's shirt. "All you had to do was ask." It was that deadpan seriousness that made Belsio's stomach churn. "Im'used to going the extra mile to make sure my brother has a roof over his head..." he slurred. "So just say it already, huh? So don't leer. S'impolite."
Letting go of Belsio's shirt, Russel would navigate himself back to his room, falling asleep nearly the moment his head hit the pillow.
John Belsio had been caught with hand in the proverbial cookie jar--called out for staring, under the assumption that he honestly wanted Russel.
In truth, he wanted an impossibility--he wanted Russel's -father- back--the only person he'd ever loved. Though to pretend Russel had been right--to let him think he'd figured Belsio out...
In Russel's voice, the way he moved, the way he looked...
It was wrong--wrong in the worst ways...
...but so very tempting.