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Entry tags:
TDIR: Over Again
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: It was time to pick up where they'd left off. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fic_on_demand, sequel to Never Again.
Bran didn't recognise the voice on the other end of the phone for a long, long moment. And when he did, it was like something had seized him by the throat, sudden and strange. "Will? Will Stanton? Is that -- "
"It's me," Will said, and there was a laugh in that, almost a laugh of relief. Bran sat dumb, then, not knowing what to say, nor how to to say it. He wanted to call Will a bastard and put the phone down, and bury him in memory as he'd done once before. He wanted to call Will names and then find out where he was and go to him, find out how he'd changed, how he'd stayed the same.
"I thought you said you'd never call again," he said, at last.
"Well, it has been five years."
"Six," Bran said, automatically, and then hating himself for betraying that he knew the count so well. "Six years, Stanton," he said, stressing it, trying to force himself into belligerence.
"I'm sorry," Will said, but Bran could hear the smile in his voice, like it hadn't changed. "I've missed you."
"Can I see you?" Bran asked. "Where do you live? How far away? You aren't -- you aren't going to disappear again?"
"I'm back for good," Will said, but there was hesitation in his voice, and then, quieter, he went on: "But are you sure you want to see me? Are you sure you don't... hate me? Are you sure we can still -- "
"Come to Wales," he said, ignoring all that. "Come and see me. I still live in Da's cottage."
"Is he -- "
"He's dead."
There was a pause. Will's voice was softer still, when he spoke. "I'm sorry. I've missed so much."
"All the more reason to come and see me, come and catch up," Bran said. His eyes flicked to the photograph, still tilted down on its face. He reached up, carefully, and righted it. "You're still my best friend, Will."
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Will said, and before Bran could say goodbye, without saying goodbye himself, he put the phone down. Bran put the phone down, too, and looked at the photograph: Will, aged seventeen.
"You bastard," he said, like before, but this time he was laughing.
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: It was time to pick up where they'd left off. For
fic_on_demand, sequel to Never Again.Bran didn't recognise the voice on the other end of the phone for a long, long moment. And when he did, it was like something had seized him by the throat, sudden and strange. "Will? Will Stanton? Is that -- "
"It's me," Will said, and there was a laugh in that, almost a laugh of relief. Bran sat dumb, then, not knowing what to say, nor how to to say it. He wanted to call Will a bastard and put the phone down, and bury him in memory as he'd done once before. He wanted to call Will names and then find out where he was and go to him, find out how he'd changed, how he'd stayed the same.
"I thought you said you'd never call again," he said, at last.
"Well, it has been five years."
"Six," Bran said, automatically, and then hating himself for betraying that he knew the count so well. "Six years, Stanton," he said, stressing it, trying to force himself into belligerence.
"I'm sorry," Will said, but Bran could hear the smile in his voice, like it hadn't changed. "I've missed you."
"Can I see you?" Bran asked. "Where do you live? How far away? You aren't -- you aren't going to disappear again?"
"I'm back for good," Will said, but there was hesitation in his voice, and then, quieter, he went on: "But are you sure you want to see me? Are you sure you don't... hate me? Are you sure we can still -- "
"Come to Wales," he said, ignoring all that. "Come and see me. I still live in Da's cottage."
"Is he -- "
"He's dead."
There was a pause. Will's voice was softer still, when he spoke. "I'm sorry. I've missed so much."
"All the more reason to come and see me, come and catch up," Bran said. His eyes flicked to the photograph, still tilted down on its face. He reached up, carefully, and righted it. "You're still my best friend, Will."
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Will said, and before Bran could say goodbye, without saying goodbye himself, he put the phone down. Bran put the phone down, too, and looked at the photograph: Will, aged seventeen.
"You bastard," he said, like before, but this time he was laughing.