In the Shadow of Stanton

Disclaimer: I didn't come up with these characters (although you all already know that so I really shouldn't have to say it)

This story is slash. 'Nuff said.

A/N: I looked back at this story and decided that I actually do like it and figured it was time to have another go at it. For anyone who's interested, though, I would still be incredibly grateful to anyone who felt like trying their hand at a piece. If so please e-mail it to me at arcoiris333@hotmail.com. And now…

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Part Five: Confusion

"Bran? Bran! Come down for breakfast, it's almost nine," Owen Davies' voice sounded muffled through the floorboards. Bran was going to have to come out of his room at some point, but his father's calls only made him want to shrink farther down into the bedclothes.

"Adowannuuh," he called back.

"What?"

"I don't want to," he tried again, struggling to get the words out around the dry feeling in his mouth. He rolled over and pulled a pillow on top of his head.

***

Simon sat at the breakfast table, staring at his bowl of oatmeal. He could see Bran's face in it, twisted with disgust at Simon, eyes filled with revulsion. At least that was how he imagined Bran must feel. He tried looking somewhere else, out the window to the blue Welsh hills, but the beautiful tawny eyes followed in his mind, boring into him with their hatred. Those eyes were beautiful, he realized now, not freakish as he had once thought. He still had no idea what had made him do what he did, up there on the hill the day before, but he had done a lot of thinking about it. And the more he thought, the more depressed he became. He did not regret it, and thanked whatever power had removed the wool from over his eyes about how he felt toward the albino boy. At the same time, however, he was not sure he could ever face those eyes again.

"Eat up your oatmeal, cariad," Jen Evans called over from the sink where she was washing the other breakfast dishes. Simon realized dimly that he was the only one left at the table. He picked up his spoon and began to shovel the food mechanically into his mouth.

He was just finishing when he heard steps approaching the front door. It sounded like two people, but he wasn't sure.

"Good morning Jen," Owen Davies called out cheerfully. Simon froze.

***

"Good morning, Simon," Bran said, trying to keep his voice neutral. He had eventually decided that the only way to figure out exactly how he felt about Simon was to talk to the boy himself. He looked intently at the back of Simon's head, seeking some sort of sign. Simon said nothing, but his silence was covered up by Jen's warm voice, welcoming them in.

Owen went over to tell Jen about a ewe that had been acting oddly, and Bran took the opportunity to move a little closer to Simon's chair. "Simon?" he said quietly.

Simon stood up abruptly, walked to the sink, deposited his bowl, and walked out the door, the whole time taking care not to catch Bran's eye. Bran followed him outside.

"Don't talk to me," Simon said, with a bitterness in his voice that Bran had never heard before. He found himself getting angry. He moved around to face Simon.

"Simon, what's-"

"Look, I told you not to talk to me!" Simon spat, turning his back to Bran quickly.

This was too much. "Simon, what the hell do you think you're doing!? You can't… kiss me one day, and then act like I've done something wrong the next. It's…" He didn't get to finish what he was going to say, because Simon turned abruptly again and went back into the house. He didn't slam the door behind him, but the jolt of his departure hit Bran as violently as if he had. Bran ran one hand slowly through his hair and stared through the empty doorway.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?