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Entry tags:
TDIR: Chiaroscuro
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Bran/Barney
Warnings: Sap
Rating: PG
Summary: All in his master plan.
Barney isn't quite sure why Bran's here, but he certainly isn't complaining -- even if his eyes are drawn, constantly, to the slim figure sitting so straight and so arrogant beside him, seeming almost translucent with the sun dipping low and behind him. Barney can't concentrate on his painting, and he hasn't added anything to the painting for five minutes, has barely been breathing since Bran came up to sit beside him.
As if reading his thoughts, Bran's lips curve into a smile. "You're distracted. What is it?"
He wants to say it -- you, you in all your beauty and strangeness and isolation, you, the one I would give the world to capture on paper in pencil and paint and ink and every medium and yet leave free, you, the one I love, the one I want to capture for my heart alone, so I can learn you and your ways and all the secrets behind your eyes -- but the words don't come out and he suspects Bran might laugh at him anyway. He shrugs instead, thinking of how unromantic the gesture is compared to his thoughts, and glances back at the painting, at his palette. He knows the exact colours he'd choose for Bran, subtle shades and heavy contrast, such a beautiful picture all in light and dark.
Chiaroscuro, he thinks, imagining Bran all spread out on a bed, transferred to canvas and made stark, imperfect, in light and dark. He'd keep that, keep it secret, keep it for himself. He almost wants to ask Bran to model for him, but the words rest on his tongue, heavy and unsaid.
Beside him, Bran makes an impatient little movement, pushing back his hair and taking his glasses off to rub them clean with his shirt. Barney puts down his paintbrush and turns slightly, looking at Bran sidelong, still. "Why are you out here, anyway?"
"I wanted to see you paint," Bran says, with a shrug.
Barney wants to touch, just to know how to paint. Painting uses all his senses, sometimes; the touch and the taste and the sound all somehow wrapping up in the colours and the scent of the paint transforming. He wants to paint Bran like that and so, without thinking, he reaches out -- his fingers brushing through Bran's hair, lightly because he knows what he's doing and it clamps down in his stomach, panic heavy and tight.
Bran just closes his eyes, his captivating eyes, all gold and fire. Barney holds his breath, runs his fingers through Bran's hair again and then brushes over his cheek. Bran's head turns, tilts -- leans into the little touch as if he was expecting it, as if this was all in some grand plan of his.
Barney wants to be bold -- a different kind of bravery to the shining, dashing knights that haunted his childhood dreams and yet, somehow, not so different, as if he could call on those old dreams for strength -- but he doesn't know how, simply staying there, frozen, with his palm now pressed to Bran's pale cheek which is warmer than he expected it to be.
Bran's smile is slow, a hint of mockery turning up the edges of his mouth. "Kiss me," he says, carefully pitching his voice so Barney doesn't have an option, can only lean closer, and for now he is the one caught, captured, known.
He thinks he could have anything he wants, from Bran, just for the asking.
It does strange things inside his stomach -- butterflies, caught and flickering, dancing. He smiles against Bran's mouth, smiles as Bran deepens the kiss and makes a soft noise as Bran's tongue pushes into his mouth. He moves close to him, closer, as if he wants to crawl into his skin.
"I didn't know," he says, when they pull apart -- not far, their breath still mingling, the space between their lips too far and yet no space at all.
Bran kisses him again, his voice all practicality while his kiss speaks volumes: "Now you do."
Pairing: Bran/Barney
Warnings: Sap
Rating: PG
Summary: All in his master plan.
Barney isn't quite sure why Bran's here, but he certainly isn't complaining -- even if his eyes are drawn, constantly, to the slim figure sitting so straight and so arrogant beside him, seeming almost translucent with the sun dipping low and behind him. Barney can't concentrate on his painting, and he hasn't added anything to the painting for five minutes, has barely been breathing since Bran came up to sit beside him.
As if reading his thoughts, Bran's lips curve into a smile. "You're distracted. What is it?"
He wants to say it -- you, you in all your beauty and strangeness and isolation, you, the one I would give the world to capture on paper in pencil and paint and ink and every medium and yet leave free, you, the one I love, the one I want to capture for my heart alone, so I can learn you and your ways and all the secrets behind your eyes -- but the words don't come out and he suspects Bran might laugh at him anyway. He shrugs instead, thinking of how unromantic the gesture is compared to his thoughts, and glances back at the painting, at his palette. He knows the exact colours he'd choose for Bran, subtle shades and heavy contrast, such a beautiful picture all in light and dark.
Chiaroscuro, he thinks, imagining Bran all spread out on a bed, transferred to canvas and made stark, imperfect, in light and dark. He'd keep that, keep it secret, keep it for himself. He almost wants to ask Bran to model for him, but the words rest on his tongue, heavy and unsaid.
Beside him, Bran makes an impatient little movement, pushing back his hair and taking his glasses off to rub them clean with his shirt. Barney puts down his paintbrush and turns slightly, looking at Bran sidelong, still. "Why are you out here, anyway?"
"I wanted to see you paint," Bran says, with a shrug.
Barney wants to touch, just to know how to paint. Painting uses all his senses, sometimes; the touch and the taste and the sound all somehow wrapping up in the colours and the scent of the paint transforming. He wants to paint Bran like that and so, without thinking, he reaches out -- his fingers brushing through Bran's hair, lightly because he knows what he's doing and it clamps down in his stomach, panic heavy and tight.
Bran just closes his eyes, his captivating eyes, all gold and fire. Barney holds his breath, runs his fingers through Bran's hair again and then brushes over his cheek. Bran's head turns, tilts -- leans into the little touch as if he was expecting it, as if this was all in some grand plan of his.
Barney wants to be bold -- a different kind of bravery to the shining, dashing knights that haunted his childhood dreams and yet, somehow, not so different, as if he could call on those old dreams for strength -- but he doesn't know how, simply staying there, frozen, with his palm now pressed to Bran's pale cheek which is warmer than he expected it to be.
Bran's smile is slow, a hint of mockery turning up the edges of his mouth. "Kiss me," he says, carefully pitching his voice so Barney doesn't have an option, can only lean closer, and for now he is the one caught, captured, known.
He thinks he could have anything he wants, from Bran, just for the asking.
It does strange things inside his stomach -- butterflies, caught and flickering, dancing. He smiles against Bran's mouth, smiles as Bran deepens the kiss and makes a soft noise as Bran's tongue pushes into his mouth. He moves close to him, closer, as if he wants to crawl into his skin.
"I didn't know," he says, when they pull apart -- not far, their breath still mingling, the space between their lips too far and yet no space at all.
Bran kisses him again, his voice all practicality while his kiss speaks volumes: "Now you do."