Rainjoyswriting - Xylophone Track.pdf - FMA Fanfiction - Mojaunicorn

Xylophone Track

One thing Maes had definitely inherited from the Elric branch of his family tree was the

Elric eating reflex; he woke every morning with the instant awareness of I'm hungry .

But on the weekends, on the endless June summer Sunday mornings pouring through

his bedroom window and turning the curtains to strips of yellow light, he knew his

parents didn't want to be woken early. He knew they wanted to sleep, they both loved

sleeping, lazy tangled creatures in their heavy-scented bed with thick curtains blocking

out every offering of the generous summer sun. Maes shouldn't wake them early on a

Sunday of all days - he just had to amuse himself, distract himself from the inner growl

of his stomach (Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast) until they woke.

For some reason reading was never as appealing in the morning. Both playing the piano

and listening to the radio would wake his parents and anyway he didn't know how to

work the radio, and anyway it seemed wrong to go downstairs before his parents were

up. He didn't know who decided that rule, neither father had ever laid it down, it was

just something he felt obliged to follow. Trapped in his room he could quietly play, or

listen to the birds, or just sit and think.

Maes was composing an opera on his xylophone. It was quieter than the piano,

especially when muffled by a heavy stuffed toy (Babbit, one-eared and ever-loyal, was

perfect), so it shouldn't wake his parents. Which was lucky, because they were the

subject of the opera. They were the only true romance Maes knew, he had composed a

sonata for Poppy but never spoken to her, he could hardly write a duet with her yet . . .

No-one would ever hear this opera anyway. There were too many words Maes officially

didn't know in it. It was a pity no-one would ever hear the Fuck You Chorus , Maes was

quite proud of the great orchestra-clash of its crescendo (his daddy on the kitchen table,

arms flung wide and bellowing hard: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you fuck you oh fuck you/

You know you're not the Fuhrer of this fucking house/ Fuck you fuck you fuck/

Yooooouuuuu- ). And he liked the lightning-quick back and forth of The Washing Up Song ;

Why don't you ever do the goddamn dishes/ You fucking lazy useless waste of space/

Edward I am very busy oh so busy oh too busy to do the washing up/ What are you saying I

am not busy/ That is not what I said/ Do you think I do no work/ That is not what I said/

Do you think your work more important/ That is not what I said/ Do you think oh do you

think that I am lazy/ That is not what I said/ How dare you say that I am lazy/ That is not

what I oh for fuck's sake I will do the washing up/ Well there's no need for that tone of

voice.

Plink plink plink.

He'd written them a waltz as well, from what he'd seen when he crept halfway down the

stairs late at night when he was meant to be in bed - when the light was on in the kitchen

but the dishes were done, when the radio was playing and they never did dance in public,

they saved that for the kitchen tiles, one daddy's face pressed so happy to the other's

chest, arms wrapped loosely safe around each other, hands running down backs, daddy's

soft secret settled smile as he moved them both . . .

Plink plink - plinkplink-plinkplink - plinkplink plink plink . . . like a music box left open.

But his hunger chirruped as loud as a bird right underneath his window, and eventually

he was driven to crack his door open, peer into the empty hallway, different and larger

somehow first thing in the morning - creep over the floorboards where he knew they

creaked - pause at their door, listening for movement, and then tap just gently.

There was rarely a response first thing in the morning, but he almost always heard the

sheets shifting. He pushed the door open and saw through the dim stifled light one

father's head bent to the other, head buried in golden hair hidden to his father's pale

throat as he whispered some morning greeting to his ear, and then both heads raised

and looked to him and Maes said, "Is it breakfast time yet . . . ?"

And his daddy sat in bed, offered his arms out, still sleepy-slow and dishevelled with hair

everywhere, for Maes to climb up the covers onto the mattress, to get his good morning

hug.

"Breakfast," Daddy said sleepily.

Rainjoyswriting - Xylophone Track.pdf

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