by Ashura
pairing: Bran/Will
disclaimer: don't I wish I owned Will, Bran, and the whole Dark is Rising sequence? But alas, I don't. and I have no money to take, because I write fanfiction rather than doing things to get paid.
notes for this chapter: LEMON. Or lime. Sex, anyway. (Uh, that's what you're reading this for really, though, right?)
part ii: ymwybyddiaeth
When I wake up, Will is still holding my hand. He's still asleep, so I roll over and shake him a bit.
"Bore da. Wake up, English boy. The rest of 'em are gone, but there's still one greedy dog to feed."
"And one greedy English boy," he agrees sleepily, pulling the pillow over his head. "You go do it. Let me know when's breakfast."
I don't think so. "Get up," I say again, with what I hope is unquestionable finality, and roll out of bed, and yank all the blankets off.
The pillow comes flying at my head. It brushes my ear and tumbles onto the floor. "Welshmen know nothing about hospitality," Will declares grumpily.
"You're just being lazy. Even when you were sick you helped out around here, so no lying about in bed now!" I hear the creak of the bed behind me, the sounds of his rising, as I turn and start pulling on clothes. Still white and black—stark emphatic non-colours, that stand out against the non-colour of the rest of me. He told me once that he thought I did it on purpose. He was right, of course. He's right about most things.
He follows me outside, and I whistle for the dog. "Arian! Tyrd yma!" She fades into sight, out of the morning mist, my graceful silver hound.
"New dog?" Appreciative, Will sounds, but a bit tentative as well.
"That's right. Got her last year, someone gave her to me." I don't feel like explaining any more than that. I know the reason for the strangeness in his voice. Arian looks like Cafall. I've had other dogs between, but Will remembers Cafall. He understands, the way there was never another dog quite like that one. The same way John Rowlands understood, when he gave Arian to me. "Lovely, isn't she?"
She wanders up to him, cautious, and he lets her get a sniff of him before she's comfortable enough to eat. "It's all right," I tell her, "he's an old friend." She seems to have come to this conclusion on her own, and he gives her a pat on the flank, and she turns to her breakfast.
"Not a lot of dogs around that colour, I didn't think," he says.
"No," I agree. "Not many." That's all either of us say about it, before we go inside.
We have tea and eggs and toast with cheese, and linger over it for a good while longer than either of us would have, normally. But there is nothing today that we need to do, except keep one another company. We decide to walk down to see Jen Evans, who would probably not forgive Will if he came all the way here and didn't stop to see her, even if it was me he was visiting. She greets him with a broad, warm smile, and a twinkling in her bright eyes—but she gives me a look, when she hugs him, like she knows there's something wrong.
"I wouldn't have expected to be seeing you here!" she announces, drawing him inside, measuring him up. "Have you got a holiday after all then? I never did keep up with the schedules, much."
"Just a little one, Aunt Jen," he says, laughing. "I owe Bran a visit, that's all. We started missing each other."
Her laughter bubbles out of her. "Now I'm not sure that bodes well—two young men, as tight as you two were—I'll have both your hides if you start causing trouble!"
We both force ourselves to look very, very innocent. "Trouble?" Will asks, managing to sound hurt. "Us?"
Jen swats at him. "As long as you're here, you can both help an old woman. I've chickens to tend."
"You're not old!" I protest. And she isn't, really, despite the streaks of grey just beginning to lighten her hair.
Will just says, "Chickens. Always chickens."
We make ourselves useful, in exchange for some more tea, and biscuits, and not having to carry the conversation. She asks about Will's family, of course, and hears some few stories he didn't tell me, probably because I still don't know all the people involved in them. There are nine siblings in Will's family; six boys and three girls. I've met three, besides Will himself. I can't really fathom the idea of growing up with so many children—even though the Evans' and Rowlands' had a hand in raising me as much as my own da, I still feel a bit cut off from things. I like listening to him talk about his childhood, stories of noise and pranks and mischief.
But he gets tired of talking, after a while, and I've seen him sneaking looks at me sometimes, like there's something he wants to ask. "Do you still play the harp much, Bran?"
"A bit." Of course I do. It's not the sort of thing one falls out of, but I can't expect him to understand that, really.
"Play something for me? It's been ages."
As if I would refuse? I sit down at the instrument—it seems so much smaller than I remember it being. I didn't give much thought about what I would play, just drew fingers across strings to wake them. A lullaby, they said, and so we did.
--liquid birdsong of summer. An old Welsh lullaby, gradually elabourated, filling out, pouring like High Magic—
Somewhere during the song, I feel his hand come to rest on my shoulder, and his smooth baritone joins the harmonies of the harp and twines with it. I don't know what words he's singing, and I don't think he does either, but the whole room trembles to life with the beauty of it.
"Well that was just lovely," Jen Evans says finally, when at last we've stopped and the last strains of the song have dissipated into the air. "It's a pleasant surprise, it is, but I'm glad you came down, Will."
"I am, too," he says, and smiles at me over her head.
We start walking back, after that. Will is quiet, a bit nostalgic I think, and in acknowledgement I drag him around to all the places I can remember us playing, as kids. The memories are all a bit hazy—I remember being there, and his being there with me, but I can't call to mind what it was we might have played. It probably doesn't matter, but it bothers me a bit.
At one point I ask him, "Do you mind this?"
He blinks at me, confused. "Mind what?"
"Missing...whatever you've got going on back at home. It did all happen pretty suddenly." I suppose I'm just wondering if I should be feeling guilty, dragging him down here just to wander around the hills with me, and play nursemaid while I sleep.
But he shakes his head, and his smile is genuine and shines out of his eyes. "I don't mind at all. I'll make up the work later, somehow." He toes the ground with his shoe, awkward. "I couldn't very well not come, after you asked."
And I just ask, "Why not?"
He doesn't answer right away, just steps closer—then his lips cover mine, soft and hesitant and undemanding. Things fall into place, things I hadn't realised before. Why it was Will that I rang up in the middle of the night, why I felt so comfortable when he was here. Why he answered, when I called. It feels right—like something I should have thought of before, but somehow hadn't.
And then he pulls away. "Sorry," he says, a bit flatly. "I just—well, I just thought you ought to know." Silence, because he's waiting for me to say something, and I just don't know what to say. After a moment he shrugs, as if none of it matters, even though we both know it does. "Let's go on up to Craig yr—oh, whatever it's called—Bird Rock, all right?"
I nod, and it seems like even that ought to have more meaning to me, but I can't seem to find it. I trudge up the mountain behind Will, just watching him walk. I draw the charm out of my shirt, at one point, and rub my fingers along the edges of it. It's warm, but that could just be because it's been against my skin, I suppose, and I've been walking all morning.
The awkwardness wears off after a while, and Will stops giving me those looks like he's not sure if he ought to say something more, or if I'm upset with him. I'm not. And though I didn't know what to do at first, I decide the best thing will just be to show him that nothing's different, that we're still the friends we were earlier this morning. Yes, I know he kissed me, and I'm fairly certain I wanted to kiss him back, but we can deal with it later...small steps, after all. And it seems to work. By lunchtime I'm teasing him about turning into a city boy, and he's dropping clumps of grass on my head.
It's easy again, comfortable, the way it should be.
But maybe I notice him a little more than before.
We stay outside most of the day, because it's not raining, which is something to be treasured here in the spring. The wind is crisp and clean, and Will repeats that he likes the way it smells. He seems content to wander through the hills reliving old memories, and since it's a sort of holiday for both of us, we don't feel pressured to do anything more.
"Do you remember?" we ask each other sometimes, when we think of something important.
"Do you remember, we almost got caught up here, when there was that fire."
"Do you remember, here we were when John Rowlands let us help deliver the lambs, the first time."
"Do you remember—"
"What?"
A wistful, flyaway smile. "Oh, nothing."
Night falls, and the awkwardness starts to creep back in. I forge ahead, half pretending that nothing happened, half hoping something does. I crawl into bed, and he climbs in slowly, like he's waiting for me to tell him to go somewhere else. I wait for him to lie down, instead, and nestle alongside him, and rest my head on his chest. Hesitantly, his fingers wrap around my wrist.
"Are you sure this is all right?" He thinks something has changed between us. And maybe it has.
I don't want to move. "Should I be worried about compromising my virtue? You never bothered about it before."
Voice, breath, body, his fingers around my wrist—all are tight, tense. "You were never lying on top of me before."
It's true, and maybe this isn't the best idea, but I can't seem to force myself to care. "Maybe I just want to see how long that steel willpower of yours can hold out."
He surges up at that, rolling me onto my back and hovering over me, pinning me to the bed. "Not very long at all, if you tease me like that." He buries his face in the hollow of my neck, his lips burning wet kisses into my skin. I gasp for breath as he pulls just a little bit away, his fingers gripping my arms.
"Bran," he murmurs, and there is something in his voice, some soft desperate longing, that I have never heard before. "Please...don't say things like that unless you mean them...I don't think I could take it...just tell me to stop...."
That is the one thing I don't want to do. Not with my entire body twisting into knots beneath him, my heartbeat crashing like thunder in my chest. The universe is only just beginning to make sense, and nervous as he is, he is the reason for it. "No, Will...please don't stop."
A moan, then, and a kiss—and with that I have surrendered to him. Each hurried caress is a new drug, merging my senses til I can no longer distinguish one part of my body from another. He pushes my t-shirt up over my head and it tangles in my wrists; he gives up on it and ducks his head to blaze a hot wet line down my chest. There's an undercurrent of roughness in his touch, leaving marks on my skin, dark red and grey stark against the colourless white. Yet it doesn't hurt, and while I know it marks me, I crave that, too.
We aren't talking, not with real words, at least. Quick gasps and harsh, throaty moans are like inventing a new language of our own, one where sounds are answered with touch, and the mere pitch of our names can have a thousand meanings all their own.
--there fire shall fly—
The charm he made for me burns where it lies on my chest. His hair falling, brushing my skin, tickling—he pauses to push it back out of his eyes, the way he's always done for as long as I've known him, and just like always it falls right back. He's got all my clothes off now, and I'm nervous and awkward at first, but there's such a hunger in his eyes that I can't be self-conscious for more than a moment. Not when he's looking at me, touching me that way—hands sliding up and down my thighs, and all the way down to my ankles as he climbs over me, nestles in between my legs.
Later, I think, later I will remember to ask him how he has learned these things, ways of touching and stroking that this hermit farm boy does not know. I will ask. But for now I will moan his name and beg him not to stop. If there are rules for this game, I do not know them—if there are things I should do or say or a certain way I should move. And I do not care. My arms are stretched above my head, still wrapped in the t-shirt that I am no longer capable of untangling. I try to keep from screaming when his kisses crawl up the inside of my thigh.
"Will--!"
He smiles at me, his eyes smoky and half-lidded and hidden behind his hair. His palms press into my hips, and I am only too conscious of his body, his position, they way he leans just a little against my leg.
"I love you," he says softly—so matter-of-fact, as if it were not the only coherent phrase either of us has uttered since we began. "I've loved you since I was twelve."
He gives me no chance to answer—only ducks his head, and gives one long slow stroke of his tongue along—oh God—my hips buck under him, but he presses me down into the bed—I am going to die or scream or explode, I can't feel the bed or the blanket, or anything but Will's soft warm mouth doing things to me that I had hardly ever dared imagine. I can't feel my own voice, but the sound of it grates my ears; my eyes squeeze shut but the light overtakes them, pounding in my eyelids, flooding my body, bursting out of it.
--and one go alone--
My limbs are tingling, heartbeat thundering, as the light retreats. I lie still and breathe, feeling the way each inhalation seeps through my pores. I have no energy for anything more. Disconnected from my body, I open my eyes. Will hasn't moved either. He's just dragging one hand across his mouth, a sort of quizzical, surprised expression on his face. He notices me looking at him and props his chin up on one folded hand.
I realise that I, and the linens, and probably Will too, are damp and sticky. I also realise I have no idea what to say.
He breaks the silence. "We, um, could both use a shower. Probably some new sheets, too."
I nod. I'm not sure I can convince my body to move that far. I must look as dazed as I feel, because Will flashes me a grin and adds, "If you're up to it, that is."
"Um. No. I mean, yes. I'm fine." Better than fine. Much better. And I know I'm going to have to find a good way to articulate this to Will, and soon, before he starts thinking I didn't mean any of it. Must be more encouraging.
Must make legs stop shaking, so I can stand up.
"Give me a hand, won't you?"
He watches me bemusedly. "Confident of you, that. What makes you think I'm any more stable than you are?" It's a good point really, but he grabs my hand and pulls me up anyway. I topple a little, getting my balance. "Bran—you're okay with this, then?"
"Do. Yes. Very." I make to kiss him, just to emphasise the point. He turns his face away, his cheeks flushing pink.
"You don't want to do that, yet—need to brush my teeth—"
Ah. Now I'm blushing, too, and red has never been my best colour. We stumble into the bathroom, and I start running the shower, and Will brushes his teeth. "Going to wait til I'm done, or come in with me?" I don't know yet what things it's safe to assume.
"You want me to?"
"Oh, get in here." He strips down and joins me under the spray. Only fair, really; he just got a good look at me naked, now it's my turn. For all I was teasing him earlier, he's not really a flabby city boy at all—stockier than me, but he always was, all compact muscle and wind-roughened skin. It's fascinating, too, the dark brown hair curling on his legs and between them, where I've almost never had any, and what there is, is too pale to see. We do a lot of looking at each other, washing up.
"You've got bruises," he says apologetically. "Sorry about that."
A look down at myself reveals he's right—but then I knew that. Marks from his fingers, from his kisses, too dark and visible in my pale skin. "It's all right. I don't feel them, really. Just bruise easy." He nods, accepts this.
"Now what?" he asks, after a few minutes more. His head is tipped back, one hand covering his eyes from the water. One of us had to ask it, after all, and he seems to go back and forth between shyness and aggression. I find I don't mind being reassuring, for now.
"We go back to bed?" I suggest. I step into him, press him back against the cool, tiled wall—I touch his shoulder with my tongue, and mean to do more, but a yawn interrupts me in the middle of it. I grumble. "Well that wasn't quite what I meant. But I suppose I'm tired."
"I am," he says frankly. "Though I'd stay awake, if—well, you know. If you were."
I do kiss him, this time, on the lips. "Let's go to sleep then...we've got all tomorrow, too. We can work out the details in the morning." Relationships—if that is what we're starting here, and I am sure we are—need to have some things laid out, put into terms we can understand. I don't think my brain is going to function much longer. On the better side of things, I think I'll have something much more pleasant to dream about tonight than swords and red-eyed horses.
We dry off, and crawl back into bed. We wrap around each other this time, arms and legs entwined, his head on the pillow and mine on his chest. My last waking thought is of the way his fingers feel, stroking through my hair.
I have other dreams, though, and I feel more than ever as if I should understand them. I dream of Cafall, and a harp, and a voice that echoes through the mountains as if they were singing. Of a tall man, stately and sad, at the bow of a great ship, and another man, silver-haired and hawk-nosed, standing at his side.
"Those bonds are outside even the High Magic, for they are the strongest things on earth. ...Consider well...you will be the Pendragon no longer, ever..."
And other words, more painful—
"I shall go before long, and one day long hence Will will go, too."
He can't leave me. Not now.
"—loving bonds—the strongest things on earth—"
I wake up slowly, my eyes stinging and heavy as if I were about to cry, something I haven't done in years. Even in his sleep, Will's arms tighten around me.
*****
translations:
ymwybyddiaeth: awareness
bore da: good morning
Arian: silver
tyrd yma: come here
do: yes