anyone out there know how to write a short chapter because i keep cranking out these behemoths. oh, well. between school starting back and the fma big bang, i'll be taking a short hiatus on this fic, but keep yourself occupied with this monster chapter till then! as always, thanks for reading and remember to leave feedback if you can!
i do want to point out that there is a slight content warning for mentioned child abuse in this chapter, beginning at the phrase expression impassive and ending at cruel words. if you need to skip over that small bit, feel free. stay safe!
The word spills from Russell's lips before he can stop it: "Hi."
Then, he shuts his mouth so quickly that his teeth clack, color flooding his face. Hi. The first time that he's seen his father in six years, and he says hi. Seriously? Russell chews the inside of his cheek and waits.
"Hi," Nash responds.
Does he look as nervous as Russell feels, or is it his imagination? He was never that good at reading his father; even now, despite how much better he must have gotten at parsing others' expressions in the time that's passed, Nash remains as inscrutable as Russell remembers, his gray eyes cool and his face calm and blank. Russell swallows against the sudden knot in his throat.
Yet, before he can decide what to say, Nash speaks first. "I didn't know—" he begins, and then pauses. Russell's fingers twitch. "I didn't know about—about your mother."
Oh. What a way to begin their conversation: recounting his mother's death. The color in Russell's face drains from it, leaving him pale.
"Y—yeah," he says. "She, um. She died after y—a few years ago."
After you left, he almost said, but he hurriedly chokes back that phrase. If Nash notices, he doesn't comment, blinking instead in what Russell thinks is dull shock.
"I didn't believe it," he murmurs, to himself more than to Russell. "When they..." He trails off. His words don't make sense to Russell, but he doesn't dare ask him to elaborate. "What happened to her?" he asks.
It's hard to meet his eyes. The automail feels heavy on his shoulder; Russell shifts, not wanting to call attention to it under his clothes.
"She had a heart attack," he says softly. "It was—it was really sudden. There was nothing that anyone could do for her."
Nash nods slowly in understanding. Then, he casts a glance to the headstone behind him bearing Elisa's parents' names. "And Mary Lemac was—"
"Belsio's sister. Mine accident," Russell tells him. "She and her husband both."
"I thought the Lemacs ran the inn," Nash says.
"They did. But it went under, so." Russell clears his throat. "Their little girl—well, not so little, she's about Fletcher's age now—"
"Who?"
There's so much that he doesn't know. He doesn't even know about Fletcher. Russell feels a vicious stab of guilt to say the name he hasn't attributed to his brother in years.
"Diana. But that isn't his name anymore. His name—" Russell places gentle emphasis on the pronoun, "—is Fletcher now. And Elisabeth, Elisa, she lives with Belsio. She's, uh." His tongue feels swollen enough to burst. "She's a really good kid. Takes after her uncle a lot. But she's more talkative."
Nash keeps his eyes on the grave as he asks his next question. "How is Belsio?"
"He's … fine. Popular as ever, but it doesn't bother him much, you know." Russell rubs his right arm with the palm of his left. Through the fabric of his shirt and coat, he feels the steel as easy as anything.
Finally, Nash looks back at him. "And how are you, Russell?"
He flushes again, all the way down to his collar; the heat contrasts sharply with the cool metal of his automail bolted there. It doesn't peek out above his shirt, does it? Russell's hand slides up to the join, as if to further hide it from Nash's eyes.
"I'm fine, too, Father." Without his meaning to, his voice comes out a near whisper. "Really."
Nash's eyes flit to Russell's hand on his shoulder, and Russell feels a thrill of fear. He pulls the hand away so quickly it might have burned him—but too late.
"What's wrong with your arm?" his father asks.
His heart drops as if to join the bodies below his feet.
"My arm," Russell repeats, his voice softer and higher than normal. His arm. The question—so simple, so not—seems to leave behind an echo: your arm. Your arm. Your arm. The fingers want to form a fist, as they often do when Russell feels defensive, but he doesn't let them, afraid the minute squeak of the steel joints will be audible in the sudden, deafening silence.
It crosses his mind, very briefly, to lie. There isn't anything wrong with my arm, Father. In a way, it isn't a falsehood at all: Garfiel's prosthetic has taken to Belsio's port surprisingly well, with no issues to report since Russell left Rush Valley. And yet ... no. He meets Nash's eyes, the gray turned silver in the slowly fading light, and feels a sort of yearning that he hasn't felt in six years. The desire to be understood, accepted, comforted by the man staring coolly at him. He might be seven years old again, with his only goal in life—despite his mother's and sibling's forewarnings—to earn his father's loving praise.
All he really needs to do is peel away his right glove, but that isn't enough, he decides. He clutches the lapels of his coat and shrugs out of it, letting it drop to the dirt. Nash's brows furrow in confusion as Russell slips his suspenders off his shoulders, then makes careful work of his buttons, his face hot as a burn despite the cool breezes that tickle his exposed skin.
"What are you—?" Nash's sentence breaks off with a small, startled noise as Russell's shirt joins his coat on the ground, bearing the automail, the scars. Meekly, he spreads his hands, exposing himself to the fullest extent, even as he shuts his eyes tight to avoid the look on Nash's face.
"Russell..." he murmurs. Is that repulsion, or sympathy? Some blend of them both? Footsteps, and then Russell jumps involuntarily as light fingers close around his automail wrist, inspecting. He opens his eyes, but that does no more to help him gauge Nash's reaction; he can only read the shock as his father stares at the arm, the elbow, and then places his hand briefly over the join of steel and flesh, very carefully avoiding Russell's scarred skin. He mouths a word, a name, Russell thinks: John. He must mean Belsio—but no one uses Belsio's first name, not even his own niece. Why would Nash, who barely knows him, as far as Russell is aware? He doesn't get the chance to ask, because Nash suddenly pulls his hand away and—Russell's stomach does a painful flip—takes several steps back.
"My leg, too," Russell tells him, opting for total honesty. Hoping, praying that it won't regret it. He looks down at his feet as Nash looks at his face, though he doesn't miss his parted lips and wide, horrified eyes.
Then, his gaze whips back to the grave behind him. It isn't Allison's, but it doesn't need to be: the shameful flush spreading down Russell's neck confirms the question that he doesn't ask.
"You—"
"I'm sorry," Russell interrupts, the tiniest whisper.
"You tried to bring her back," Nash says. The shock doesn't leave, but something else creeps in that makes Russell's blood run cold. Indignation.
All he can do is repeat himself. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Father."
"Did you—you knew. You knew that it was forbidden and you tried it anyway?" Nash takes a breath, maybe to steady himself. Russell closes his eyes again. "When? When did this happen?"
"About four years ago." Russell can't bear to raise his voice above a mumble. Nash might have ripped the vocal cords right out of his throat. "February, nineteen-eleven."
"Your sister," Nash says, a realization. "Your sister. Where is she? What happened to her?"
Even now, Russell can't resist correcting him. "My brother is in Central City, and he's fine."
"You couldn't have—"
"It wasn't Fletcher's fault, it was mine. It was my idea, all my idea, I bullied him into helping me," he blurts out, shaking his head.
"Russell," Nash says again. Two syllables that gouge him like a knife. "Russell, how could you? You knew that it was taboo, and dangerous, and stupid—what could have possibly convinced you that it was a good idea?"
"I couldn't live without you both!" he gasps. On couldn't, Russell's voice cracks, and he presses his flesh hand over his mouth. He doesn't dare open his eyes, terrified of how his father's face must look; his tone has cowed him more than enough. "I couldn't live without you both," he repeats, this time a whisper, a plea.
There's more that he could offer in his defense—I wasn't even eleven; they were going to take Fletcher and me away; why weren't you there to stop me, then?—but he can't bring himself to say any of it. He wraps the automail around himself almost in a hug, though the metal only chills him further, and tightens the muscles in his shoulders to keep them from shaking.
Silence. At long last, Russell cracks open an eye. Nash's expression—thin lips, cold, glittering eyes—might be hewn from stone.
"You should have known better," he says flatly. "I can't belie—" He cuts himself off again, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I can't," he says, shaking his head. "I just—I can't."
He steps around Russell and walks swiftly away from the Lemacs' grave, the tail of his coat whipping in the late evening wind.
Russell, feeling numb, stares at the headstone in front of him. TOBIAS LEMAC on the left, MARY BELSIO LEMAC on the right. Their dates of birth and death underneath, the latter the same for each. Russell can never decide if he pities or envies Elisa for losing both of her parents on the same day—at least she didn't have to suffer the same heartache twice over.
Or, three time over, now.
With his hand still pressed to his mouth, he sinks to his knees in the dirt. Tears fill his eyes and make them burn.
Stupid! he thinks. It becomes a chorus, a drumbeat—stupid, stupid, stupid! God, how stupid is he? Desperate enough to grovel for forgiveness, pathetic enough to want it above all things, arrogant enough to dare think that there's a chance for it—a chance that someone, especially someone he loves so much, could forgive him? Russell, who played God, damned his brother, and tried to rip his resting mother from the earth because he was so pitiful as to want to hold her again? Nash's rejection, however unspoken, drives the final nail into the coffin: Russell is unforgivable. Unlovable. As hideous in mind and spirit as the scars along his shoulder.
Moving his hand from his mouth, even as he continues to softly weep, he touches those scars, the rough, knotted skin. His fingers brush the beginning of his automail, and Russell has the sudden, bizarre urge to yank the steel—the mark of his shame—from his flesh. Let him bleed out, right where his father stood. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care.
Then, footsteps. Hunched over with sobs, Russell twists to look over his shoulder, hoping against hope that maybe Nash has returned. Instead he recoils with horror and embarrassment at the sight of Ling.
"Russell?" he asks. Quickly, Russell turns away and tries to wipe his eyes on his bare wrist, his shirt and coat still on the ground beside him. "Are—are you crying?"
"No," Russell spits savagely, as he chokes on another whimper. He presses his hands over his face, his teeth clenched as he tries—and fails—to regain control.
Ling kneels on the ground beside him; Russell flinches at the touch of his cool hands on his shoulders. "Russell, what happened? What's wrong?" he says with rising alarm. Though he resists, he forces Russell to turn and face him. "Russell?"
"Go away," Russell bites out.
"Russell, talk to me," Ling insists. Another sob tears through Russell's throat. "What happened? Who did this? Who hurt you?"
He should keep mum, salvage some dignity, at least—but he's too weak. "M—" He swallows, fighting to speak. "My—my father, he was h-here."
"Your father?" Ling's eyebrows knit. "I thought your father was gone, Russell? You told me he left a long time ago."
"He did. He came back. And h-he—" Russell shakes his head, fresh tears spilling over his hot cheeks. "Fuck, I'm such an idiot, Ling. I'm such an idiot."
"No. No, no, no," Ling says immediately. "No, Russell, you're not. I promise you're not."
Russell shuts his eyes as the hands leave his shoulders, but they fly open again a mere second later when Ling instead puts his arms around his neck, his fingers cradling the back of Russell's head. He's helpless to fight the embrace; he sinks into it like he's starving for it, his forehead pressed to Ling's shoulder and his left hand tightening in the back of his jacket. Ling's other hand rubs comforting circles into his back.
"He said—" Russell hiccups. "H-he said—"
"Don't," Ling interrupts, so harshly that Russell freezes. Ling hugs him tighter. "I already want to hurt him. Don't make me want to kill him."
He presses his cheek to Russell's hair, tickling his ear with his soft breaths. The hand on his back leaves for just a moment to retrieve Russell's coat from the ground; Ling gives it a shake and then wraps it snugly around Russell's bare shoulders to protect him from the cooling air. "There you go," he murmurs, and tries to fold Russell in his arms again—but this time, Russell pulls away with a fresh sob ripping through his throat, shaking his head fiercely.
"You wouldn't be on my s-side if you knew!" he chokes out. "You'd hate me if you knew! You would, I know it!"
"If I knew what, Russell?" Ling asks, staring at him beseechingly. "What'd make me hate you? What?"
Russell can't bear to say it. He only clutches his mouth, rocking a little on his knees and trembling both from despair and the evening's chill.
Ling's hand reaches out, and Russell recoils. Yet, it's for nothing—his fingers are impossibly gentle as they tuck Russell's overlong bangs behind his ear, exposing his face, and then tip his chin up so that he's forced to meet Ling's eyes, dark as upturned earth. Then, to Russell's bewilderment, he smiles.
"Russell." His thumb swipes Russell's wet cheek. "I already know."
The breath leaves him in a sudden, horrified rush.
"I—I never knew how to tell you," Ling continues, uncertain creeping in, "but, Russell—between the two of us, Mei and I figured out that you and Fletcher tried to bring back your mother with alchemy months ago. Like, maybe a week after you left, if that. That's what you're talking about, right? Trying to bring back your mother? That's what made your father so mad?"
"I showed him my arm," Russell whispers.
Ling nods. Russell thinks that he sees a glimmer of fury in his eyes, but then it passes, and he looks at Russell with earnest.
"You are not defined by your mistakes," he says. "You are defined by how you react to them. That's how you know what sort of person you are. You are the sort of person who loves, who forgives, and who tries his damnedest every single time he's knocked down. Your father is the sort of person who'd rather put his own kid down than own up to anything. And he doesn't deserve you. He doesn't deserve your time, he doesn't deserve your talent, and he damn well doesn't deserve your tears. You don't owe him anything, you hear me? Nothing at all."
He keeps petting Russell's hair as Russell focuses on his breathing, willing it to steady. In, out. In, out. After a few moments, he blows out a long, slow sigh, then sheepishly averts his eyes from Ling's.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, dashing the rest of his tears on his sleeve. Ling tilts his head in confusion. "That you had to see me like this."
He startles again—still feeling jumpy—when Ling clasps his hand as he lowers it from his face. He squeezes, and Russell's already-warm cheeks grow even warmer. "It's okay."
Several moments pass in silence. Then, Ling covers his mouth with his hand and gasps.
"What?" Russell says, eyes widening.
Ling points at him. "You have two eyes!" he says dramatically.
Russell's laugh comes out as a thick, watery snort—pretty gross, in all honesty, but with as undignified as he already looks, he can't find it in him to bother him. Ling's eyes are wide as cenz as he grins.
"I can't believe it! Russell has two eyes!" he exclaims. He leaps to his feet, still clutching Russell's hand and tugging him up also. "Come on! I've got to tell everyone! Everyone! Russell has two eyes!"
"Shut it! People are probably sleeping, idiot!" A reprimand rendered entirely meaningless by his continued giggling, especially when Ling laces their fingers together, automail and flesh.
It doesn't look that bad at all.
"I can't take your bed! I can't do that, it's—it's too much!"
Russell, dry-eyed and fully clothed once more, walks in the kitchen with Ling at his side to find Fuery pleading with Belsio's back. Belsio pays him minimal attention as he dries and puts away dishes at a fast and skilled pace.
"Please, let me sleep on the couch," Fuery insists. Belsio thoroughly ignores him as he opens a cabinet over Fuery's head to fill an empty shelf with plates. "Letting me stay in your house is enough—I'll sleep on the couch and you can stay in your own room, don't you think that's fair?"
"Wasn't asking you," Belsio says flatly, nudging Fuery aside to get to the silverware drawer. Fuery groans in anguish, as if he were being thrown out on the street.
"There you are!" Elisa says from the table. She's in her pajamas clutching a mug of tea. Chamomile; Russell can tell by the smell. "They've been at it for like an hour," she explains, gesturing to Fuery as he continues to follow Belsio around the kitchen like a desperate puppy. "In case you were wonderin' about sleepin' arrangements—you an' your friend are in your room, I'm in mine o' course, and the master sergeant's gonna sleep in Uncle Belsio's room while Uncle Belsio takes the couch."
"No!" Fuery says furiously.
Belsio closes the last cabinet with a sharp snap. "Oh, knock it off already, will you. Relax, have some tea, stop running around like doomsday's coming."
"I—" Finally, Fuery surrenders. He takes a mug from the counter and sits at the table with a small, resigned sigh.
"There's plenty of leftovers in the fridge, Russell. Get some if you're hungry; you didn't eat a whole lot today, I noticed," Belsio says, and then stops. Russell hurriedly averts his gaze, worried his face might show some evidence of him crying.
After several seconds of peering at him, Belsio looks away again. "Elisa," he says, casting a stern glance in her direction, "you've got school in the morning."
She blows out a loud, long sigh, but that's as much protest as she gives. She finishes her tea in several huge gulps, goes over and puts the mug in the sink, and then hugs Belsio around the waist—the only person who could get away with such a thing. "Goodnight," she says to everyone, sweet as sugar, and wiggles her fingers at them all as she disappears down the hall and into her room.
Russell resists the urge to roll his eyes. If she doesn't have something hidden under her bed to tinker with until the wee hours of morning, he'll eat his boot.
Ling's elbow digs gently into his side. "Care to show me the accommodations?" he says.
"Oh. Uh—sure, yeah." He pointedly avoids Belsio's eyes as he leads Ling down the hall to the bedroom opposite Elisa's: his and Fletcher's room.
Technically, a guest room, but Belsio rarely keeps any other guests. It must have been six years ago that Belsio put a second bed in here to keep Russell and Fletcher from arguing over who would have to take the floor every time they spent the night, which became more frequent as their mother started working odd jobs to support them after Nash's departure. Allison was too stubborn to let Belsio help much more than that, though even as a child, Russell knew he often tried.
It isn't that small a bedroom, but with two beds, two nightstands, and a dresser squished into a corner, it feels a bit cramped. Still, Russell's memories of it are fond enough to make him smile, if bittersweetly. The smile fades as Ling comes up behind him.
"Which bed do you want?" he asks, kicking off his shoes. He thinks there might be a pair of sweatpants in the dresser—maybe even a second pair to loan Ling, if he wants.
"Which one's yours?" Ling asks in return.
Russell points, crossing the room to retrieve the sweatpants and then stepping out to change. When he returns, Ling's in his borrowed pajamas and lying in that bed, comfortable as can be, his long hair loose and spread over the pillow.
"I said that one's mine, Ling," he says, heaving a patient sigh.
"I know." Ling smiles and pats the mattress. "Come on."
Russell nearly drops his bundle of clothes on the floor.
"I mean—" Ling props himself up on an elbow as he gives an awkward laugh. The low light makes it hard to tell, but Russell thinks that's a blush in his cheeks. "You don't have to, obviously. I just thought, you know. After what happened, you might." He gestures vaguely. "You know."
Be too vulnerable to want to sleep alone. Ordinarily, Russell would be deeply offended at this assumption of weakness: he, State Alchemist at twelve years old, with more near-death experiences than the average person twice his age, can clearly handle sleeping in a bed by himself. And, yet ... he wraps his arms around himself, as if he were cold. He doesn't want to sleep alone. He wants a warm body to press against and a hand to hold—proof that he's well deserving of the affection that others have denied him.
It doesn't have to be weird, right? It isn't like he has any secrets from Ling anymore.
"Push over," he says. Ling beams as he does, and Russell, after clicking off the light, crosses over and slides in beside him, careful to keep his automail foot away from Ling's toes.
Ling quickly snuggles in close, the ends of his hair tickling Russell's neck. "Comfy?" he asks.
"Mm," Russell says. He nearly slides an arm around Ling's waist, but hesitates, remembering the automail. Ling notices and shakes his head.
"It's okay. Go on." Russell obeys; Ling shivers once at the coolness of the steel, then shuts his eyes with a sleepy, content sigh. "There we go. That's nice."
"Yeah," Russell breathes.
Ling hums. A soft smile crosses his lips. "Sleep tight, Russell."
He doesn't know how Fletcher lives without this.
"You, too. Sleep tight."
Mere minutes later, it feels like, Russell startles awake at a knock on the door.
Not the bedroom door, but the door to the flat. Yet, that still makes no sense, Russell thinks; someone would have to have a key to the front door of Belsio's workplace to get in the house at all, which would also grant them access to the stairwell door downstairs and then the apartment's door. If someone had such a key—and Russell can't imagine why anyone but Belsio or Elisa would—why would they bother to knock? What time is it? A glance out the window says that it's late, but dim light shines through the crack under the door, and within moments, Russell hears footsteps and the rattle of the doorknob: Belsio, letting in his guest.
Russell props himself up on an elbow. Beside him, Ling lies sprawled out with an arm thrown over his face, snoring softly.
"Well." Belsio's voice is deep enough to carry even from the living room. "Been a while since you showed your face around here. Breaking and entering's a federal crime, you know."
"You could have told me that Ally was dead."
Nash. Russell's heart seems to stutter in his chest. Why is he here?
"I'm sorry, how exactly?" Belsio says caustically. "It's not like you left an address when you pissed off to God-knows-where. And, whatever you believe, you actually aren't the only thing that's ever on my mind."
"A letter might have found me. You could have at least tried," Nash insists, with some irritation. "Did you not think that I might like to know my wife had died?"
"It crossed my mind, yeah, and then I decided I wasn't gonna bust my ass trying to track you down again."
What does he mean, again?
Silence follows this statement. Then Nash speaks again, so quietly that Russell strains to hear him from his bed. "She would have wanted me to know."
"Hm. You don't look so sure." When Nash doesn't respond, Belsio sighs sharply. "What are you doing here, Nash?"
There's no helping it. Careful not to disturb Ling, who's got a leg thrown over his, Russell extricates himself from the blankets and crosses the bedroom on tiptoe to kneel by the door. When his father speaks again, he risks turning the knob and opening it just a crack to better hear their voices.
"I—I wanted to talk to Ally. And you, John." Nash's voice is hesitant; Russell can't imagine he's looking Belsio in the eye. And again with Belsio's first name, with no reprimand from the man himself. Why? "Then I went to the house, and there wasn't anything there but a pile of ash. I found her grave and figured she had died in the fire."
"That was after she died. The boys started that fire before they left," Belsio tells him.
"Is it true that Russell's with the military?"
Russell hears footsteps and the creak of cushions. Belsio sitting down, he thinks.
"You said you wanted to talk, Nash, so talk. I'd like some answers, anyhow," he says coolly.
More footsteps—presumably Nash's this time—and a more careful squeak of cushions as he sits. Russell pictures them opposite each other, their eyes locked, deep black and pale gray. They know one another well; that much is obvious, though Russell never knew before tonight. And they're clearly not on the best of terms. Why that is, Russell can't say: the cause of the tension between them and the serrated edge in Belsio's tone seems to have originated long before Nash left home.
Another short silence, and then Belsio speaks again. "You talked to Russell, didn't you?"
"Did he tell you?"
"No," Belsio says. "I recognized that look in his face. Like a dog whose master kicked it for clamoring for attention."
That's a little on the nose, Russell thinks sourly, reddening a bit.
"I didn't mean to hurt his feelings," Nash replies after a pause. "Or, at least—I wasn't going out of my way to hurt him."
"Of course not. Haven't gone out of your way for that boy a day in your life, have you?"
Nash's voice cracks as he struggles to respond to this. "I—I wasn't cut out to be a father, Belsio—" he begins.
Belsio cuts him off. "And Allison wasn't cut out to be a mother. She said so to me, she must've said so to you; you know how she was. She didn't hold back. But she made it work, and you know why? Because she loved those boys with everything in her. She loved them, so she tried her hardest, and she made it work. You, you never tried. Not with her, and not with them."
"I did try." It's very quiet, and spoken so hesitantly that Russell wonders if Nash even believes it himself. After a moment, he sighs. "Oh, all right. The assault on my parenting skills, while off-topic, isn't ... entirely unwarranted. I admit that. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Belsio doesn't dignify this with a response.
"But you and I both know that isn't why you're really angry, John."
"What did you say to that boy, Nash?" Belsio asks, even harsher than before. Did Nash touch a nerve? What other reason does Belsio have to be angry at him?
Nash sighs again. There's a noise that Russell thinks might be his father swiping his hand down his face. "I might have been a little insensitive."
"Really? Now I can't imagine that."
"For heaven's sake, John, enough with the sarcasm already. Please, can't we talk like adults?"
"That coming from you?" Belsio makes a sound that Russell's never heard before: a high, bitter laugh. "When have you ever given me a straight answer about anything? When have you ever wanted to talk like an adult?"
"Does now count?" Nash asks softly.
Belsio snorts. "You're unbelievable, Nash Tringham. Goddamn unbelievable."
"You must know what they did, Belsio," Nash says. "Russell and Diana."
"Fletcher."
"Fletcher, then. The two of them..." He imagines Nash leaning in seriously. "John, I know you aren't an alchemist. But even you must know that human transmutation is the ultimate taboo. It isn't just against the laws of man—it's a crime against nature itself. And yet, the two of them tried to use it to resurrect Ally. Part of me doesn't even know how they survived it."
"Hope you're not asking me how they did. You said it yourself: I'm no alchemist," Belsio says. "All I know is they tried and it—it nearly killed them, Nash." His voice softens, grows shaky. "God, if you'd heard those screams ... I'll never forget them. Not as long as I live."
Neither will Russell. He feels goosebumps along his arm just to think of that night.
"You weren't able to stop them."
"No." It's almost a murmur. "I wasn't."
"Belsio ... there are many principles involved when it comes to alchemy, but the first and foremost is that of equivalent exchange," Nash says slowly. "Which means, in simplest terms, your input must equal your desired output. To obtain, you must sacrifice. And if you sacrifice..."
"You'll get something," Belsio fills in, sounding thoughtful. "What are you saying?"
Russell, heedless of the creak of the door, presses his ear against the crack, not wanting to miss a single word.
"Russell and Di—Fletcher, they created something." Nash pauses. "What was it?"
This isn't something that Russell has ever considered. He has few memories of that night after he bonded Fletcher's soul; shock had him in and out of consciousness and everything felt like a dream, a nightmare. The results of their failed transmutation seemed obvious: his missing arm and leg, the armor that's now his brother's prison. Never has Russell thought of Fletcher and him having created something. Yet, Nash's words make sense. They must have. So ... what was it? Russell's equal parts desperate and loath to hear Belsio's response.
"It—it wasn't human, Nash," he murmurs. "Whatever it was. It was—it was meant to be, that was obvious, but it just, it wasn't. There was blood, blood all around it. It was in this huge tub, I guess full of whatever compounds they'd tried to use to do the transmutation, and it was—it was too dark to see too well, but I think it had a head, and an arm; I remember an arm, scrabbling at the ground. And a pair of dark, empty eye sockets. And I just—I remember this noise it was making, like it was struggling to breathe..."
Bile rises up in Russell's mouth as he listens to this. He and Belsio have never spoken of that night; he tries to think of it as seldom as humanly possible, and he assumes that Belsio does the same. The words infect him with sudden, pulsating fear, his throat closing with it. In some twisted way, did he actually succeed in his goal that night?
"Was it her?" Nash whispers.
Russell can scarcely breathe for fear of hearing the answer.
"No," Belsio says quietly. "The hair was black. Not red, like hers. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't her."
Nash breathes out a soft, slow sigh. Russell does the same, pressing his hand over his heart and willing it to steady. It wasn't her. However wrong he was to try and transmute his mother, at least he didn't make her a monster.
"What did you do?" his father murmurs.
"I'd brought a shovel. I crept up and I hit it. That's all it took; it stopped that noise right away, almost like it died. I buried it in the backyard," Belsio responds. "Your yard, not mine."
"How did you find out about it?" Nash asks. "Did you find them?"
"They came to me. Fletcher brought Russell to me. Once I'd made sure he wouldn't bleed to death, I pulled Fletcher aside and he told me everything."
"And what did you say?"
"What did I say?" There's a note of incredulity in Belsio's voice. "Oh, I don't remember, it was years ago—that they were wrong to do what they did, probably, but they'd be okay, I'd make sure of it. What, was that wrong?" Belsio demands with sudden heat. Nash must not look impressed with his response. "I'm sorry. Since you know everything, what should I have said?"
Nash ignores the jibe. "Russell showed me his automail arm. I know as much about automail as you do alchemy, but I know enough to recognize your handiwork when I see it. You built that arm. His leg, too, I assume."
"Of course I did," Belsio says flatly.
"This was, what, nearly four years ago?" Nash presses. "That would match the date on the headstone. You outfitted an eleven-year-old, my eleven-year-old, with automail. Don't you need consent for that kind of surgery? He was a child, Belsio!"
"I had consent," Belsio insists. "Russell's. I didn't have a choice; he didn't give me one. He begged and begged 'til I finally gave in. You think I wanted to? I've watched grown people pass out from the pain after screaming their throats raw. Russell knew that, and he pleaded with me to do it so much he cried."
"No." Belsio's voice was firm, his back to Russell's sickbed as he dropped his soiled gloves in a biohazard bin. "You're too young to get automail. Your body hasn't matured enough yet."
"I'm tall for my age!"
"And you'll just get taller. You'll keep on growing, especially once you hit puberty, and it'll have to get replaced constantly. Every couple of months. Imagine how much it'll hurt the first time, and then think of that repeated every few months 'til you're at least sixteen. Maybe even longer, if you end up as tall as your parents—five-ten, five-eleven. That's a lot of pain you're committing to, Russell."
"I don't care! I need a new arm and leg so that I can do what Lieutenant Colonel Mustang said and join the State Alchemists! So that I can get Fletcher his body back!" Russell remembers his voice breaking, the tears he'd been fighting to hold back dripping onto the fresh bandages swathed around his torso. "Please, Belsio, you have to! You have to, you have to, please! I have to be able to fix what I did! I don't care how much it hurts, I have to be able to fix my little brother!"
The pause that had followed had seemed endless, a quietly crying Russell on tenterhooks as Belsio stared at the wall. Then, finally, a resigned sigh.
"After your birthday. Your wounds will have healed enough by then. Then, I'll do it. I'll start the arm and leg tonight."
"That's all it took?" Nash asks.
"Do you assume everyone's as much a heartless bastard as you are?"
"I know that you play by your own rules, but surely that was sidestepping a law or two. Operating on a child more or less in your care."
"Well, it's done," Belsio says shortly. "And I'm not sorry for it. He needed my help and I gave it to him."
"Yes, you're generous as ever, John." Nash's sarcasm isn't as pronounced as Belsio's, but it's still audible. "Were you really helping him, though? Pulling him out of every hole he dug himself into? Do you think you might have been doing more harm than good, in the long run?"
Belsio sputters in disbelief. "Was I really—more harm than—your boy was dying, Nash!" he suddenly shouts. Russell, who has never, ever heard Belsio raise his voice, jumps. Beside him, Ling gives a sleepy snort and rolls onto his side. "Your boy was dying! He came to me in his brother's arms bone-white and soaked in blood! What the hell was I supposed to do, you son of a—?!"
"Stop yelling, John, please. People are sleeping," Nash urges.
Russell can hear Belsio's harsh breathing from here, but he seems to remember himself and exhales. The cushions squeak again, as though he'd leaped up to holler at Nash.
"Do you think that lowly of me, John? That I would fault you for saving my son's life? That isn't what I was talking about," Nash continues. "I meant the automail surgery. He went on and enlisted from there, didn't he? All of, what, twelve, thirteen years old? How could you let him do that? Barely even a teenager and you let him join the military?"
"God knows I didn't want him to. Those State Alchemists, they're the military's attack dogs, and there's always some conflict or another going on somewhere; you know this country's a hellhole underneath. And Russell, he's softer than he'd ever admit. If they forced him on the front lines and had him killing innocents ... I doubt he could survive it."
"He's like Ally," Nash says quietly.
Russell has tried so hard for so long to emulate Nash that he's never considered being like his mother—or that he's already like her. Fierce, argumentative, stubborn, but loyal, compassionate, and loving. A stickler for what he believes in. Unwilling to admit weakness or defeat even if it kills him. Maybe he's his mother's son in more than looks.
"Course he is," Belsio answers. "He sure didn't get that fire from you."
"Did she talk about me at all, after I left?"
"Well, yeah, but she didn't say much of anything good, if that's what you're asking," Belsio tells him. "Elisa learned a lot of her swear words overhearing Allison complain about you."
"But was she happy that I was gone?" Nash presses.
"Of course she wasn't! She wanted you in those kids' lives, Nash. And you should've been. You should've been there when Fletcher told us all he was a boy. You should've helped him pick out new clothes and cut his hair. You should've taught Russell all you know about alchemy—I swear the boy's a genius, Nash. Fletcher, too, honestly. You should've been there to comfort him when we tried to give his old skirts and dresses to Elisa and they were too small for her. It should've been you telling him you could be a boy no matter how little you were, not Russell and certainly not me. I see that look in your face, Nash. You think I took your place. I just gave those kids—and her—a fraction of what they needed. And from me, it wasn't enough. You could've been enough. And you left." A pause, and Russell imagines Belsio looking at Nash beseechingly, shaking his head. "Why?"
"If I could undo it—" Nash begins softly.
"There's no undoing it," Belsio interrupts, sounding harsh again. "That's not the way the world works, Nash Tringham. You have to live with the shitty thing you did."
"You have no idea—" Nash's voice trembles; from anger, or something else? "—what I have to live with."
"Of course I don't." Belsio isn't fazed. "Don't pretend it's anyone's fault but yours that you never let me in."
Yet another pause—the longest thus far—stretches between them. The cushions squeak again; someone stood up.
"Is this all we've got now, John?" Nash asks in a pensive voice. "Is this all that's left? Is there anything else to say between us?"
"I've said my piece," Belsio responds. "You gonna say yours? Lord knows I've been waiting for it a long time now."
"Something terrible is going to happen here," Nash says. "In Amestris. I don't know when; soon, most likely. If you can bear to leave, I would recommend it."
Belsio gives a short laugh. "Don't tell me that's why you came. To say that? Really?"
"You don't believe me?" Nash nearly sounds caustic. The tone produces a noise from Belsio that, despite having never seen him with such an expression, makes Russell imagine him with a sardonic smirk.
"Nash, honey, you have never, not once in all our time together, given me any reason to believe a word that comes out of your mouth."
"I don't think that's fair," Nash says.
"Oh, yeah?" Russell pictures the smirk sliding from Belsio's face, an unforgiving look in its place. "What's on my back, Nash?"
Russell, for the life of him, cannot make heads or tails of this. Nash should be able to, surely, but he says nothing.
"That's what I thought." Belsio's voice is quiet and dark. Final. "Now get the fuck out of my house."
There's a clink of metal that Russell can't place, footsteps, and then the sound of the front door opening and shutting. Belsio gives a loud sigh; Russell, still hidden behind the door, cautiously rises and prepares to analyze what he just heard.
Then: "You can come out now, Russell."
Oh, damn it.
Belsio's leaning back in his favorite armchair when Russell sheepishly pads into the living room, his arms folded across his chest and his ankle draped over his knee. Russell stares down at his toes, flesh and steel, and waits for the reprimand that's admittedly his due.
Instead, Belsio sighs. "Sit down. I'll make tea."
He doesn't sound angry. Not even annoyed; merely exhausted. Still feeling tentative, Russell crosses over to the sofa and perches on the very edge, knees brought up to his chest, while Belsio goes to the kitchen and prepares the kettle. He returns moments later and sits with his elbow propped on his thigh and his forehead braced against his hand.
"Well?" he prompts, when Russell says nothing. "I expect you've got questions."
Several of them. What comes out first is, "I didn't know that you knew my father."
Belsio shrugs, sitting back. "Course I did. We were neighbors."
"That's not what I mean. You knew him as well as you did my mother," Russell says. "But how? You never seemed like friends to me."
At friends, Belsio snorts. "We weren't friends any time that you can remember, trust me. Don't know if we were ever 'friends.' But I know his mind like I know mine—wish I didn't, sometimes, but I do. He can play at complex all he wants, but he's an open book to me."
It crosses Russell's mind to ask how—his mouth, though, has different ideas. The question spills out before he can stop it. "Why? Why is he like that? Why is he so cold, why does he shut everyone out, why isn't—?" He hesitates, cheeks heating. "Why isn't anything that I do good enough for him?" he finishes in a murmur.
Belsio sighs again, long and slow. When he speaks, his voice is as gentle as Russell's ever heard it. "At his heart, your father's a loner, Russell. Takes one to know one, obviously, but he's not like me. Lots of people just make me uncomfortable; you know that. Him, he's paranoid. Incredibly. He sees catastrophe wherever he looks and there's nothing in the world someone could do to convince him to trust them, so he shuts 'em out and pushes 'em away before they've got the chance to betray him, and he's arrogant enough to really believe that everyone's out to get him. It's Nash Tringham versus the world, and he won't take any allies no matter how hard you try to persuade him you're on his side.
"He's aware of all this, too," he adds when Russell parts his lips to ask. "Oh, definitely. Nash understands himself perfectly well, and that's why he hates himself so much. Whatever he said to you at the cemetery, Russell, I promise he didn't feel good about it. But he also didn't feel bad enough to keep from doing it again. Part of him would love to change and be a better person, sure, but in the end, it's too much effort. He's too comfortable doing what he's already doing. Set in his ways, you know. Compared to him, Allison was damn near flexible enough to be an acrobat."
It earns a laugh, a genuine one. Belsio smiles fleetingly before he grows solemn, reaching out a hand to cover Russell's forearm. "The important thing you've got to keep in mind is, it's not you, Russell. I know it's hard to accept. Gotta be even harder for you, since you're his son. But it's the honest truth: it's him, not you. All right?"
"All right," Russell murmurs.
"Say it."
"It's him, not me," he recites. It's loath to sink in, but Russell knows that it makes sense. It can't have been him: Nash treated Fletcher, Allison, and apparently Belsio with the same negligence. He treated Russell this way long before he even knew what human transmutation was. He says it again. "It's him, not me."
Belsio takes his hand away. "Good. You just keep that in mind whenever you're feeling low, all right? Just remember you didn't do anything wrong, and try not to let him get to you."
"How is he supposed to not get to me?" Russell insists. "He's my father! I'm supposed to want to make him happy, and—and proud of me, and if I fail in that, then—then it's my fault, isn't it?"
Belsio stares at him levelly for several seconds, his expression impassive. Then, in an unfittingly casual voice, he tells Russell, "My father was a violent alcoholic who drank himself to death when I was your age. Still the only nice thing he ever did for me. My mother was a spiteful old hag with nothing kind to say to or about anyone, who made sure I knew she preferred my older sister. Awful people, both of them. Did I ever want to make them proud? Course I did. But I learned the hard way it wasn't possible, and I did the smart thing and gave up. I finally ran off when I was about sixteen, seventeen. Best decision I ever made. When Mary and her husband died, dear old Mom put so much energy in keeping me from getting custody of Elisa that it killed her, and I'd bet every cenz I own that she went to her grave cursing my name. And you know what?"
"W-what?" Russell asks, struggling to hide his surprise at this revelation.
A smirk twitches on Belsio's mouth. "I feel just fine."
Russell takes a moment to let this sink in. Never has he heard Belsio talk about his childhood; in all honesty, it's hard to even imagine Belsio as a child. He tries to picture it. A tiny John Belsio with messy black hair and deep, dark eyes, skinny and looking skinnier in overlarge clothes. Hiding from his father's drunken fists and his mother's cruel words. Somehow, that child grew up into the person sitting in front of him now: the gruff, no-nonsense automail mechanic that Russell insists is the best in the world, and one of the most decent people that he's ever met. It offers him hope.
"Society peddles this idea that your family's got to be the most important people to you, purely because they're your family. 'Blood is thicker than water' or whatever," Belsio continues. "Pardon the language, but that's bullshit. You don't owe your family anything on account of being related. The only people in your life who you owe are the people that are kind to you. If that's your family, then that's great for you. If it's not? So be it."
It's something that Russell already believed, really. He just never applied it to himself and his own life—too attached to what he wanted to be to see what actually was.
"I never realized how much I didn't know about you," Russell says quietly. "Your past, knowing my father..." Another thought occurs to him. "When you two were talking, my father said something like, 'I know this isn't why you're really angry at me.' What did he mean by that? Did he do something else to make you mad at him?" It only makes sense. Belsio is too slow a boil to detest Nash without plenty of reason for it.
"He was just derailing. Trying to avoid owning up to what he'd done," Belsio responds. "He wanted to paint me as in the wrong, too. The man's got a victim complex the size of the Xingese royal family."
"So he didn't do anything to you specifically to make you not like him," Russell says.
Before Belsio can answer, the teakettle starts shrieking. Russell follows him into the kitchen and produces two mugs while Belsio finds teabags.
"Sure he did. He did plenty to make me not like him," Belsio tells him, shrugging. He pours boiling water in each of their mugs with such precision, he doesn't spill a drop. Then he replaces the kettle and leads the way back into the living room. Without saying a word, he makes himself clear: Russell won't be hearing any specifics about the root of his dislike of Nash Tringham. It was worth a try, at least.
He reclaims his spot on the sofa, placing his mug on the coffee table. "And what did you mean when you s—"
He breaks off with a hiss of pain as hot tea splashes onto his hand. Glancing at the mug, Russell realizes that there's something under it, making it unbalanced; he moves the mug aside to steady it and then inspects. A key. He picks it up with his automail hand, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It looks like a copy of the key to Belsio's house—but Elisa's has a chain looped through it to wear as a necklace, and Belsio's a thin leather strap to attach to his belt on the rare occasions that he leaves home. A spare key?
He suddenly remembers that clink of metal before Nash left. Was this it: Nash tossing this key onto the glass-topped coffee table? That would fit the noise, but why did Nash have a key to—?
Oh, fucking hell. The lingering familiarity, Belsio's resentment, the key. You and I both know that this isn't why you're really angry. I know his mind like I know mine. Using Belsio's first name without incident. For God's sake, Belsio called him honey; sure, he was being sarcastic, but—
Russell is such an idiot.
"Careful, tea's ho—"
"You and my father were together," Russell blurts.
Belsio, his own mug midway to his mouth, pauses. His eyebrows lift. "Excuse me?"
"That's why you dislike him so much, and what he meant when he said that you had a different reason for being angry at him, and—" Belsio narrows his eyes to slits, and Russell wavers, color creeping up his neck. "It—it really isn't any of my business," he concludes meekly.
Belsio sighs sharply through his nose, occupying himself with his tea. "You're right," he says shortly. Then, after he takes a sip: "On both counts."
"You were?" Russell says, wide-eyed. "Wait—how? When?!"
"It was before Nash met your mother and well over by the time you were born, I promise," Belsio tells him, stepping on the end of Russell's sentence. "And that's really all you need to know about it."
"But—" Russell begins. Belsio quells him with a look, and he slumps against the back of the sofa, defeated. He supposes there is only so much that he'd want to hear about his father's romantic history—Belsio's, too, really—but even so, he can't help his incredible curiosity about the pair of them. Nor can he resist another question as it comes to him. "But you and my mother. You were such good friends," he says.
"Yeah," Belsio answers. "So?"
Russell stares into his tea to avoid his eyes. "Wasn't that—I don't know—awkward? Since she and my father were married?"
"Maybe a little at first," he concedes. "But you know how your mother was. Real vivacious, that one. It was hard for anyone not to like her, ex's wife or no."
Russell nods. As he takes a sip of tea, he remembers his question from earlier. "What in the world did you mean when you asked my father what was on your back?"
Belsio freezes, fingers tightening around the handle of his mug; Russell watches his knuckles whiten. When he speaks, his voice is tight. "Exactly what I said. I want to know and he won't tell me. Doesn't have the decency to. He's a damn dirty coward is what he is."
"But what do you mean, he won't tell you what's there?"
A muscle twitches in Belsio's jaw as he seems to debate whether or not to answer. Then, after a short period of silence, he exhales. "It's some sort of symbol drawn there. I can't figure out what it means, especially since obviously I can only see it in a mirror, and barely even then. But your father knows. He knows what it means and who put it there and he won't say a word, even now."
"Drawn on … you mean like a tattoo?" Russell asks. Belsio glowers into his mug instead of answering. The realization comes to him then, and a chill crawls up his spine like a many-legged insect. "You mean to say someone tattooed something on your back against your will?"
The heavy silence is as good as any answer. Russell swallows, his stomach turning a little at the thought. It's upsetting enough to imagine a young Belsio being physically and verbally abused, but permanently marked without his consent…
"What h—?"
"I really, really don't want to talk about it," Belsio interrupts. Something in his tone—as close to pleading as Russell as ever heard from him—makes Russell drop it immediately.
Belsio glances over at a clock on the wall and stands. "It's really late, Russell. You should be getting to bed. You'll be leaving first thing in the morning, I figure."
"P-probably, yeah," Russell agrees, with some hesitation. He can't help the odd feeling of being dismissed and doesn't want this to be the note that they part on. Belsio seems oblivious to it, going into the kitchen to put away his mug and then to the hall.
"Night, Russell."
"Goodnight," Russell murmurs, clutching his mug as he watches him. Before he disappears into his bedroom, though, he calls out, "Belsio."
He pauses, one foot in the doorway, an eyebrow raised.
"Th—thank you," Russell tells him, still a bit hesitantly, but sincerely. "For sticking up for me. When you were talking to my father."
Belsio's mouth twitches in what might be a smile. "I'll be gray before I'm forty 'cause of you," he says, "but you're a good kid, Russell. You've got a good heart. You know—" it's Belsio's turn to hesitate, his hands burying themselves in his pockets as he turns a bit to face him, "—I don't think I ever told you this specifically, Russell, but, uh. I've always thought of you more as Allison's son than Nash's. You're a lot more like her. And your mother was one of the best people I ever knew, and you know how stingy I am with people."
Russell blushes deeply at the compliment, his eyes flitting down to his mug of tea. "Thanks," he says softly. "That means a lot."
Belsio gives a curt nod, then turns and goes into his room, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.
Russell clutches his mug between both hands and brings it to his lips to drink. The tea isn't the only thing that puts warmth in his chest; the feeling travels all the way down to his toes.
Russell wakes up the next morning to the sounds of Elisa scrambling to get ready for school on time—not for the first time, she overslept.
"Consider investing in an alarm clock," Russell suggests as she hops around the kitchen, one hand clutching a piece of toast while the other tries to pull a sock up to her knee.
"She's got one," Belsio responds. Compared to his niece, he's the picture of serenity as he examines some blueprints over coffee. He glances up for a moment. "What happened to your alarm clock, Elisa?"
Her sock on, she throws her open bookbag over a chair and starts stuffing it with papers. "I took it apart!" she hollers through a mouthful of toast, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She swallows hugely, swings her bag over her shoulder, and hurries over to loop an arm around Belsio's neck and press her lips to his cheek. "Okay, love you! Gotta go! Bye!"
"Your shoes," Belsio reminds her as she sprints to the door.
"I'll put 'em on when I get downstairs! Bye!"
She disappears with the sound of her feet pounding on the stairs.
Belsio shakes his head, sighing. "What am I gonna do with that girl," he mutters. Still, he doesn't look too stern as he returns to his blueprints.
Fuery, straightening his uniform, enters from Belsio's bedroom. His lips are pursed and there's a line between his eyebrows. "The earliest train to Central City isn't going to leave for another hour and a half," he informs Russell, disgruntled. "But the more time we loiter, the more suspicious we seem—!"
"Relax, will you?" Russell says. "The higher-ups probably think that I'm here for automail maintenance—and you're my trusted escort and guard." He tries to say it with as little irony as possible: really, Russell would rather have Elisa and her wrench by his side in a fight than Fuery.
"Wouldn't be a bad idea for me to look at your arm, anyhow," Belsio adds, setting his mug down. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "What do you say, Russell? We don't even have to go downstairs—just wanna do a quick inspection, maybe tighten some screws here and there."
"Uh … sure, yeah," Russell responds, forcing a smile that feels like a grimace. He never did tell Belsio that the arm he built had to be replaced a few weeks ago. He'll love that.
While Belsio deftly turns a chair around and has Russell straddle it, Ling shuffles into the kitchen, looking rumpled in the clothes he wore yesterday and his hair in a sloppy ponytail.
"Good morning," Fuery tells him.
"Can't talk," Ling mumbles. "Need food."
He pads over to the refrigerator, pulls out a casserole dish, and fishes a fork from a nearby drawer before he plops down on the counter to feast.
Belsio stares at him for several seconds, nonplussed. Then, he merely shakes his head and steps out to find his toolkit. "Russell," he says upon return, "I'm happy you made a friend, believe me. Next time, though, try a friend who isn't a bottomless pit." Ling eats on, unabashed.
Russell shrugs off his suspenders and unfastens his buttons. Silence greets him when he lets his shirt slide down his arms, exposing his shoulders.
"This ain't mine," Belsio says bluntly after several seconds.
Russell gulps. When he starts talking like Elisa, he means business.
"No, it isn't. You see, um—there was a—an altercation, a little bit ago—" he begins. Belsio exhales sharply through his nose. "And, er—the arm, it—kind of got torn off…?"
"Torn off," Belsio repeats. Russell gives a sheepish nod. After several more beats, while Russell shifts uncomfortably and Belsio's eyes bore into him, Belsio pulls up a second chair and sits behind him. "Gonna go bankrupt 'cause of you, boy, I swear to God," he mutters as he gets to work. "How does an automail arm get torn off—you know what, I don't wanna know."
"I'll pay double to make up for it. How's that?"
"Won't pay me at all. I'm not taking your money," Belsio answers. The expected response. Still, it was worth the attempt.
He lapses into silence as he works, oiling joints and tightening screws with such precision, Russell only feels the occasional twinge of pain. When he finishes eating, Ling sidles over to watch; his eyebrows lift in idle interest.
"If it's money you're worried about, I bet you could make a fortune in Rush Valley," he tells Belsio. "The automail capital of Amestris and birthplace of yours truly. Especially since Russell tells me you're the best mechanic in the whole world."
Russell cringes a bit. He stands by it, but he didn't necessarily want the compliment passed on: aloud, it sounds nearly revering. Belsio only hums in reply.
"Couldn't go to Rush Valley if I wanted to. Anyway, I'm happy here. Not about to mess with a good thing," he says.
"Why can't you?" Ling asks.
Belsio's screwdriver pauses mid-rotation. Unable to move, Russell tries to communicate to Ling with only his eyes to let it go, but Ling tips his head in curiosity heedless of any insensitivity in the question.
"My brain's not wired right," Belsio finally says, surprising Russell. It isn't usually something that he's willing to talk about. "Not sure how or why, but something got messed up when I was about your age, maybe a little older, and it's gotten worse with time. Guy runs at you with a knife; there's a physical reaction to that, right? Heart starts pounding, you start sweating, teeth chattering, you know." He picks up the oil and dabs some around another screw before he starts to tighten it. "There's science behind it. Chemicals in your brain flood your system and tell you to be on edge like that, so you're ready to either confront the thing that's got you all up in arms or run the hell away from it. It's a survival reflex. When you're actually in danger, it's a really useful thing."
Out of the corner of his eye, Russell sees Ling nod. Belsio gives a screw in Russell's shoulder one last twist before he leans back in his chair, swiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
"When you're not in danger, though, it's not useful at all. And that's what happens to me," he tells Ling. "Some days I can't even go out to the mailbox without my brain going haywire telling me I'm in danger. Tried talking myself out of it; nothing's worked yet. All those chemicals are having a field day and I feel scared even though I know there's nothing to be scared of. Farther from the house I go, the worse it gets. So I don't leave too much if I can help it. Save myself the trouble. Rush Valley definitely isn't an option for me."
Ling seems to be at a rare loss for words. "That sounds awful," he says after a moment. "There's nothing you can do to—I don't know, treat that? Maybe seeing a doctor could help?"
Belsio gives a short laugh. "Not a doctor in this town who believes me when I try to explain it. Again and again, I get told it's just a matter of willpower. If I really wanted to get over it, I would, they say." Russell can't see his face, but he imagines that Belsio rolls his eyes. "All right, Russell, you're done. Good job not having any bullet holes this time."
"One time," Russell mutters irritably, swiftly rebuttoning his shirt and wriggling back into his suspenders.
"Great!" Fuery says. He brings his hands together. "Then, if you don't mind, major, I really think we ought to be going—the less we dawdle, the better I'll feel."
Meaning, the more that they dawdle, the more that he'll twitter like a small, anxious bird. Russell supposes they should be heading back to Central anyway: he vanished without any explanation and can only hope that Fletcher hasn't worried himself to death. He rises.
"Sure thing, master sergeant. How about we meet you downstairs?"
Fuery salutes, then turns on his heel and hurries out of the kitchen to the stairwell. Russell looks at Belsio, still sitting with his elbow propped on the back of his chair.
Many, many times has Belsio adjusted his automail, but for some reason, this time feels different. Is it what he overheard last night? How Belsio defended him, took his side when even his own father wouldn't, in spite of how he personally disagrees with the means Russell uses to achieve his goals? It isn't as if Belsio's support is anything new: the man did everything he could for Russell's family after Nash left, cared for Russell and Fletcher when Allison died, and even now equips Russell with expensive prosthetics at no cost, purely out of the goodness of his heart.
To Nash, the automail was a deformity, an appalling remnant of Russell's worst mistake—and for so long, Russell believed so, too. He looks down at his right hand, gloveless and glinting gently under the light. How wrong he was. His automail isn't a mark of shame. It's a mark of compassion. Of love.
"Thank you," Russell says, from the bottom of his heart.
Belsio raises his eyebrows, then shrugs, standing. "Don't mention it. Just doing my job. Russell," he adds a moment later, right as he's about to walk out the door. Russell looks back. "Call me when you get to Central."
A smile touches Russell's lips. "Will do."