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Entry tags:
TDIR: What You Have To Do
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Bran POV, angst
Rating: PG13
Summary: Will came and went, always saying he'd never come again.
I never really knew him. But sometimes, I think, I knew him well enough.
I knew, for a start, that he'd be back. Every time, I knew, it wouldn't be the last time I saw him. We stood together in the station in Tywyn, watching the train before his leave, and I knew he'd be back. He had his hands in his pockets, and his eyes had a new far away look that felt wrong for no reason I've ever been able to explain. I felt as if we'd shared a greater intimacy, somehow, as if we'd been so close we could almost read each other's minds... but when I reached for the memories, they tattered apart and feel away, until there were only flickers of memory -- a brief thought shared, a glance that seemed to mean more than it should.
Still, I knew he'd be coming back. I told him as much. "You'll be back, next summer," I said, and he smiled in a wistful sort of way and shrugged his shoulders.
"Who knows?"
It wasn't the answer I'd wanted, of course. "You're my best friend," I said, nudging him gently. "Right?"
"Right," he said, with the tiniest of fleeting smiles. Like he was lying, and he knew it. Like there was something bigger than all that, something I just didn't understand. It felt like he was suddenly grown up, grown away from me, like he'd already left me behind. It was like he thought he knew better than me.
Whether it was arrogance, or whether I really knew, I don't know. But I knew I was right.
"You'll be back," I said again. The noise of the train coming in, the train that would take him away again, covered my words.
---
He didn't come back the next summer. The next time I saw him, I'd just turned eighteen. He came at a time when most of the other men of the farm were off -- buying sheep, maybe, or selling sheep, or some other task that took them away from the farm. There was only me, in my father's cottage, and he came then as if he knew that. He was tired and travel-worn, and his smile and his eyes were far away, still.
"Told you you'd be back," I said, as I made him tea. He laughed, without any real humour.
"Not for long," he said. "And not when you said I'd be. Stick to your day job, Bran."
"Still, you're back." I gave him the tea and perched on the kitchen table, near to where he sat. "Though I guess I was wrong about being your best friend."
He lifted his eyes to mine, then, for the first time -- that was the first time I really understood what the far away look was: not distance, but time. He had grown up, grown away. "You were, for a time. And... you're still the first person I came to, now I need somewhere to stay the night."
"Couldn't stay with your family?"
"No," he said, without ever explaining more. I don't think I wanted to know: somehow, I sensed a subject better left well alone.
"I'll be moving out of here, soon," I said, to fill the sudden heavy silence. "I'll be staying on Clwyd Farm, of course. But I'll be moving a bit higher up. To have somewhere of my own, like. Da's all for it, surprisingly enough."
"I'm sure I'll be able to find it."
"At least you admit that you'll be back, this time," I said. He didn't say anything, to that.
---
"I didn't mean to come back," he told me, the next time. His skin was cold against mine, his hands on my skin almost desperate, as if he had to take everything he could from a moment that wouldn't -- couldn't -- last long enough for him. "For the past five years, I've -- I've been fighting the idea. But I -- "
"Shut up," I told him, wrapping myself around him, pushing him down amongst the blankets and pillows, into the mess we'd already made of my bed. I silenced him then, with my mouth, with my hands. But afterwards, when he held me close again, when my heartbeat was just starting to slow, he started again, disturbing the sleepy warmth with words that stung, even though I knew he was wrong.
"I won't come back again," he said, firmly.
"Yes, you will," I said, into the warm of his shoulder. I bit lightly, pressing tighter against him, all in hope of distracting him. "Shut up about it, now."
His tone stayed firm, and though he didn't push me away, I felt the growing distance again. "I can't help it, Bran. I won't come back."
"Yes, you will," I said, my voice as firm as his. I pushed up, so I could look into his face, and placed my hand on his chest where I could feel his heart beating, real and close. "You'll go away, and you'll do -- whatever it is you'll do. And you'll come back here, and I'll be waiting for you. It'll be years. Not months. I've learnt that much. But you'll be back, Stanton."
"Doesn't it hurt?"
He was more of a stranger than I'd ever thought, and that stung too. I kissed him, though, silencing him again, tasting the bittersweetness of his mouth. "Of course it hurts," I whispered, fiercely. "But you come back anyway. Promise?"
He didn't promise, but he didn't have to.
---
"There was a whole bunch of them," he told me, when I found him white-faced and bleeding on my doorstep. I was twenty-nine -- it felt like just short of ancient. I dragged him to his feet and inside, and all the while he lied to me. "I got into a fight. One of them had a knife."
I didn't say anything as I got out my first aid kit.
"Bran?" he said. I pulled the bandage tight, tighter than necessary.
"I'd rather you not say anything at all, than have you lie to me," I told him. He sighed and nodded.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come..."
"I said don't lie," I said again, and brought both hands up to cup his face, kissing him. He closed his eyes.
"Don't you have anyone...?"
Maybe I should have lied, so that he wouldn't have felt guilty. But I'd asked him not to lie to me, so it seemed a fair exchange. "No," I said, resting our foreheads together. "You spoiled me for anyone else."
"I'm sorry," he said, guilt-stricken. Hesitantly, he broke the silence that fell then. "I won't be away so long, next time."
"Don't lie," I reminded him, gently. I ran my fingers through his hair. I think that was the closest I ever came to understanding him -- as if in that moment I touched the memories that got lost on the way, and understood his loneliness, his need, his duty. "You do what you have to do. And I'll always be here, waiting."
"Not always," he said, sadly. But he let me lead him to my bedroom, to my bed that was too big for one alone, too small for two.
---
He stands before me now, on the doorstep, and everything around us is the same as always. It's been years since I saw him: he has not changed, somehow, his round face still unlined, his hair still dark, and now the distance of years and miles seems nothing. The years brushed past him without ever touching him, but the current carried me on.
"I'm sorry," he says, softly, and his eyes search my face, like he's looking for the boy he knew, the young man who loved him, the lover he'd had.
"You've done what you had to do," I tell him, softly, and I know it's true, though I don't know -- yet -- why I know. "But you won't be coming back here again."
I know, too, that he's leaving. It should hurt, as his leaving always did, as his coming back always did. There's only a kind of relief in it, now.
"No," he says, and he's smiling, a real smile for the first time since we were boys together. His voice is quicker, lighter. "And nor will you. Come with me, now."
What do I have to lose? Years spent alone, waiting, memories snatched and held like a shield against the loneliness, years of wanting nothing more than for the years to simply pass. Years spent being the freak, years between the times when he'd look at me and make me feel like more than I was.
"Yes," I say, and he gives me that look again, taking my hand into his.
Tomorrow, they may find my body, the husk left behind -- or they may find nothing at all. It doesn't matter. Neither of us will be back. He was right, that I wouldn't always wait for him, in that place, in that time.
I was right, that he'd always come back to me. That I'd always wait for him.
Pairing: Will/Bran
Warnings: Bran POV, angst
Rating: PG13
Summary: Will came and went, always saying he'd never come again.
I never really knew him. But sometimes, I think, I knew him well enough.
I knew, for a start, that he'd be back. Every time, I knew, it wouldn't be the last time I saw him. We stood together in the station in Tywyn, watching the train before his leave, and I knew he'd be back. He had his hands in his pockets, and his eyes had a new far away look that felt wrong for no reason I've ever been able to explain. I felt as if we'd shared a greater intimacy, somehow, as if we'd been so close we could almost read each other's minds... but when I reached for the memories, they tattered apart and feel away, until there were only flickers of memory -- a brief thought shared, a glance that seemed to mean more than it should.
Still, I knew he'd be coming back. I told him as much. "You'll be back, next summer," I said, and he smiled in a wistful sort of way and shrugged his shoulders.
"Who knows?"
It wasn't the answer I'd wanted, of course. "You're my best friend," I said, nudging him gently. "Right?"
"Right," he said, with the tiniest of fleeting smiles. Like he was lying, and he knew it. Like there was something bigger than all that, something I just didn't understand. It felt like he was suddenly grown up, grown away from me, like he'd already left me behind. It was like he thought he knew better than me.
Whether it was arrogance, or whether I really knew, I don't know. But I knew I was right.
"You'll be back," I said again. The noise of the train coming in, the train that would take him away again, covered my words.
He didn't come back the next summer. The next time I saw him, I'd just turned eighteen. He came at a time when most of the other men of the farm were off -- buying sheep, maybe, or selling sheep, or some other task that took them away from the farm. There was only me, in my father's cottage, and he came then as if he knew that. He was tired and travel-worn, and his smile and his eyes were far away, still.
"Told you you'd be back," I said, as I made him tea. He laughed, without any real humour.
"Not for long," he said. "And not when you said I'd be. Stick to your day job, Bran."
"Still, you're back." I gave him the tea and perched on the kitchen table, near to where he sat. "Though I guess I was wrong about being your best friend."
He lifted his eyes to mine, then, for the first time -- that was the first time I really understood what the far away look was: not distance, but time. He had grown up, grown away. "You were, for a time. And... you're still the first person I came to, now I need somewhere to stay the night."
"Couldn't stay with your family?"
"No," he said, without ever explaining more. I don't think I wanted to know: somehow, I sensed a subject better left well alone.
"I'll be moving out of here, soon," I said, to fill the sudden heavy silence. "I'll be staying on Clwyd Farm, of course. But I'll be moving a bit higher up. To have somewhere of my own, like. Da's all for it, surprisingly enough."
"I'm sure I'll be able to find it."
"At least you admit that you'll be back, this time," I said. He didn't say anything, to that.
"I didn't mean to come back," he told me, the next time. His skin was cold against mine, his hands on my skin almost desperate, as if he had to take everything he could from a moment that wouldn't -- couldn't -- last long enough for him. "For the past five years, I've -- I've been fighting the idea. But I -- "
"Shut up," I told him, wrapping myself around him, pushing him down amongst the blankets and pillows, into the mess we'd already made of my bed. I silenced him then, with my mouth, with my hands. But afterwards, when he held me close again, when my heartbeat was just starting to slow, he started again, disturbing the sleepy warmth with words that stung, even though I knew he was wrong.
"I won't come back again," he said, firmly.
"Yes, you will," I said, into the warm of his shoulder. I bit lightly, pressing tighter against him, all in hope of distracting him. "Shut up about it, now."
His tone stayed firm, and though he didn't push me away, I felt the growing distance again. "I can't help it, Bran. I won't come back."
"Yes, you will," I said, my voice as firm as his. I pushed up, so I could look into his face, and placed my hand on his chest where I could feel his heart beating, real and close. "You'll go away, and you'll do -- whatever it is you'll do. And you'll come back here, and I'll be waiting for you. It'll be years. Not months. I've learnt that much. But you'll be back, Stanton."
"Doesn't it hurt?"
He was more of a stranger than I'd ever thought, and that stung too. I kissed him, though, silencing him again, tasting the bittersweetness of his mouth. "Of course it hurts," I whispered, fiercely. "But you come back anyway. Promise?"
He didn't promise, but he didn't have to.
"There was a whole bunch of them," he told me, when I found him white-faced and bleeding on my doorstep. I was twenty-nine -- it felt like just short of ancient. I dragged him to his feet and inside, and all the while he lied to me. "I got into a fight. One of them had a knife."
I didn't say anything as I got out my first aid kit.
"Bran?" he said. I pulled the bandage tight, tighter than necessary.
"I'd rather you not say anything at all, than have you lie to me," I told him. He sighed and nodded.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come..."
"I said don't lie," I said again, and brought both hands up to cup his face, kissing him. He closed his eyes.
"Don't you have anyone...?"
Maybe I should have lied, so that he wouldn't have felt guilty. But I'd asked him not to lie to me, so it seemed a fair exchange. "No," I said, resting our foreheads together. "You spoiled me for anyone else."
"I'm sorry," he said, guilt-stricken. Hesitantly, he broke the silence that fell then. "I won't be away so long, next time."
"Don't lie," I reminded him, gently. I ran my fingers through his hair. I think that was the closest I ever came to understanding him -- as if in that moment I touched the memories that got lost on the way, and understood his loneliness, his need, his duty. "You do what you have to do. And I'll always be here, waiting."
"Not always," he said, sadly. But he let me lead him to my bedroom, to my bed that was too big for one alone, too small for two.
He stands before me now, on the doorstep, and everything around us is the same as always. It's been years since I saw him: he has not changed, somehow, his round face still unlined, his hair still dark, and now the distance of years and miles seems nothing. The years brushed past him without ever touching him, but the current carried me on.
"I'm sorry," he says, softly, and his eyes search my face, like he's looking for the boy he knew, the young man who loved him, the lover he'd had.
"You've done what you had to do," I tell him, softly, and I know it's true, though I don't know -- yet -- why I know. "But you won't be coming back here again."
I know, too, that he's leaving. It should hurt, as his leaving always did, as his coming back always did. There's only a kind of relief in it, now.
"No," he says, and he's smiling, a real smile for the first time since we were boys together. His voice is quicker, lighter. "And nor will you. Come with me, now."
What do I have to lose? Years spent alone, waiting, memories snatched and held like a shield against the loneliness, years of wanting nothing more than for the years to simply pass. Years spent being the freak, years between the times when he'd look at me and make me feel like more than I was.
"Yes," I say, and he gives me that look again, taking my hand into his.
Tomorrow, they may find my body, the husk left behind -- or they may find nothing at all. It doesn't matter. Neither of us will be back. He was right, that I wouldn't always wait for him, in that place, in that time.
I was right, that he'd always come back to me. That I'd always wait for him.
no subject
The ending seems right, and them. No more waiting. They have an eternity.
I love the way you write them :)
no subject
Thanks. :D