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Entry tags:
TDIR: Five Times Barney Tried To Draw Bran
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Bran/Barney
Warnings: None
Rating: PG13
Summary: Barney's obsession with Bran. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
candywrapper.
"For god's sake, Barney," Simon mutters, pulling the covers over his head and burrowing deeper into bed. "It's nearly midnight. Can't you just give up and try again in the morning? I can't sleep with the light on like that."
"You used to," Barney says, without looking up. Simon can hear his pencil scratching a little on the paper, and can almost feel the deep concentration Barney has been in almost since they got back to the hotel. He sighs softly, giving up.
"Are you still trying to draw Bran?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"It can't be that hard, right? He's so pale... you can't have to do much in the way of shading."
"Oh, but that's what makes it a challenge," Barney says, and he sounds entirely too happy about it all. Simon groans and burrows deeper into his covers, burying his face in the pillow. He can't imagine Barney stopping until he's got it right -- and yet somehow he doesn't think that Bran is the kind who can be committed to paper, too strange and regal and different.
Saying that would probably only make Barney worse again, though. Simon huffs softly and thumps his pillow into shape, settling down yet again and trying to ignore the light and Barney's deep concentration that somehow makes him feel restless.
Barney never does manage to get that sketch right. He tries again, later, on the way home, biting his lip and frowning at every bump in the road. Simon wants to say something -- whether encouraging or just to try and get him to give up, he doesn't know what; so he doesn't say anything, and just watches. The person Barney is drawing is both Bran and not quite him; the look on his face is as arrogant as Bran's usual expression, his stance as confident, but there's something more noble, more regal, about the whole thing.
Barney works feverishly, as if he's on a timer -- as if the precious image has to come out now or stay forever lost beyond his reach. Like he's holding it in his mind and it slips away like sand through his fingers.
Simon elects to just watch and wait, again. At least it isn't keeping him up this time. He never sees Barney trying to draw Bran again, after that.
That doesn't mean he doesn't try, of course. It's years later when he really tries -- he's visiting Wales again, to draw and to remember, and of course he looks Bran up and of course the Welsh boy hasn't gone anywhere.
"You've really grown," Bran tells him, leaning back against a tree while Barney basks in the sun with his sketchpad. "I was still thinking of you as 'little Barney Drew' whenever I got letters from you."
"I'm taller than Simon now," Barney says, huffily, wrinkling his nose.
"Still a few inches to go before you beat me," Bran says, cheerfully. "What are you drawing?"
"I'm trying to draw you." Barney looks up after a moment, suddenly looking more agitated -- almost fidgety. Bran raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't say anything: that way, the pressure is on Barney to fill the vacuum of sound with words. And he does, his voice remarkably steady considering that Bran can actually see his hand trembling a little: "Do you suppose I could maybe, you know, one day, sometime, draw you naked? I don't mean that in the -- "
"Yes," Bran says, without waiting for the rest of it. He smirks a little. "For the good of the art world."
Barney laughs. "I've never been able to draw you right," he says, shrugging. "The art world might not see much of you."
Bran is perfectly comfortable with the idea of being naked, as Barney finds when they've finally arranged a time and found a room with enough light that's comfortable enough for Bran. Barney tries to slip into an artist's frame of mind, but somehow he finds himself thinking instead of all the things he obsessed about in dreams and snatches of daydreams when he was younger: how Bran's skin would feel, how Bran's hair would slide through his fingers, how Bran would kiss.
He didn't end up sketching for long, truth be told.
His favourite picture forever afterwards -- and Bran's, too -- will be a sketch done after the sex that ensues from the pouncing he does then. Bran is no longer so distant, no longer so arrogant, and yet the old regal lines are still there; there's a softness, a tenderness stealing into his face as he looks out of the picture -- at the artist, one imagines: for that look wouldn't be wasted on anyone who was less than extraordinary.
Pairing: Bran/Barney
Warnings: None
Rating: PG13
Summary: Barney's obsession with Bran. For
candywrapper."For god's sake, Barney," Simon mutters, pulling the covers over his head and burrowing deeper into bed. "It's nearly midnight. Can't you just give up and try again in the morning? I can't sleep with the light on like that."
"You used to," Barney says, without looking up. Simon can hear his pencil scratching a little on the paper, and can almost feel the deep concentration Barney has been in almost since they got back to the hotel. He sighs softly, giving up.
"Are you still trying to draw Bran?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"It can't be that hard, right? He's so pale... you can't have to do much in the way of shading."
"Oh, but that's what makes it a challenge," Barney says, and he sounds entirely too happy about it all. Simon groans and burrows deeper into his covers, burying his face in the pillow. He can't imagine Barney stopping until he's got it right -- and yet somehow he doesn't think that Bran is the kind who can be committed to paper, too strange and regal and different.
Saying that would probably only make Barney worse again, though. Simon huffs softly and thumps his pillow into shape, settling down yet again and trying to ignore the light and Barney's deep concentration that somehow makes him feel restless.
Barney never does manage to get that sketch right. He tries again, later, on the way home, biting his lip and frowning at every bump in the road. Simon wants to say something -- whether encouraging or just to try and get him to give up, he doesn't know what; so he doesn't say anything, and just watches. The person Barney is drawing is both Bran and not quite him; the look on his face is as arrogant as Bran's usual expression, his stance as confident, but there's something more noble, more regal, about the whole thing.
Barney works feverishly, as if he's on a timer -- as if the precious image has to come out now or stay forever lost beyond his reach. Like he's holding it in his mind and it slips away like sand through his fingers.
Simon elects to just watch and wait, again. At least it isn't keeping him up this time. He never sees Barney trying to draw Bran again, after that.
That doesn't mean he doesn't try, of course. It's years later when he really tries -- he's visiting Wales again, to draw and to remember, and of course he looks Bran up and of course the Welsh boy hasn't gone anywhere.
"You've really grown," Bran tells him, leaning back against a tree while Barney basks in the sun with his sketchpad. "I was still thinking of you as 'little Barney Drew' whenever I got letters from you."
"I'm taller than Simon now," Barney says, huffily, wrinkling his nose.
"Still a few inches to go before you beat me," Bran says, cheerfully. "What are you drawing?"
"I'm trying to draw you." Barney looks up after a moment, suddenly looking more agitated -- almost fidgety. Bran raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't say anything: that way, the pressure is on Barney to fill the vacuum of sound with words. And he does, his voice remarkably steady considering that Bran can actually see his hand trembling a little: "Do you suppose I could maybe, you know, one day, sometime, draw you naked? I don't mean that in the -- "
"Yes," Bran says, without waiting for the rest of it. He smirks a little. "For the good of the art world."
Barney laughs. "I've never been able to draw you right," he says, shrugging. "The art world might not see much of you."
Bran is perfectly comfortable with the idea of being naked, as Barney finds when they've finally arranged a time and found a room with enough light that's comfortable enough for Bran. Barney tries to slip into an artist's frame of mind, but somehow he finds himself thinking instead of all the things he obsessed about in dreams and snatches of daydreams when he was younger: how Bran's skin would feel, how Bran's hair would slide through his fingers, how Bran would kiss.
He didn't end up sketching for long, truth be told.
His favourite picture forever afterwards -- and Bran's, too -- will be a sketch done after the sex that ensues from the pouncing he does then. Bran is no longer so distant, no longer so arrogant, and yet the old regal lines are still there; there's a softness, a tenderness stealing into his face as he looks out of the picture -- at the artist, one imagines: for that look wouldn't be wasted on anyone who was less than extraordinary.