TDIR: Epiphany
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: Rhys/Bran
Warnings: Angst, deathfic
Rating: G
Summary: Rhys tries to fill Will's place in Bran's life.
Bran is alone, as always. Once there'd've been a dog with him, of course. But not since Cafall's death, or at least not since Pen got too old and arthritic to be scampering around with anyone, even for pleasure rather than work. There's something otherwordly -- and more than that, horribly remote and lonely -- about Bran: it reminds Rhys of his cousin Will and the quiet ancient sadness that falls over him sometimes.
"Hey," he says, in Welsh, to Bran. Bran looks up, his strange, lovely eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. It's easy to romanticise Bran's loneliness, there's a kind of rightness about the isolation, but Rhys can't quite believe that Bran is quite out of reach, when he smiles. Not yet, at least, or maybe not anymore.
"Hey," Bran says, after a moment. "Is there something...?"
"No."
He raises an eyebrow. Rhys sits down beside him, feeling lanky, ungraceful, even though Bran is near as tall as him now. Somehow Bran went ahead and got the grace people still insist that he'll grow into. "Just wondered if you were okay."
"Why would I not be?"
Rhys shrugs and holds his tongue, because he could say it -- you never are, especially not now -- but it'd be stupid to put words to that, to bring it out between the quiet companionship that has only lately become natural. "You're not moving away to go to university, then?"
Bran shakes his head. "I'm staying here, with Da. At least until -- "
"I know," Rhys says, so that Bran doesn't put words to the even more unspeakable, the fact that Owen Davies is dying, and god knows why. One day he was as strong and as stubborn as ever, going to church as much as or more than ever. And then this; the slow hard death from cancer, and him too stubborn to admit he needs help. "Does he know you don't go to church anymore?"
"I come out here, like. I let him think... he can think what he wants." Bran shrugs and then looks up at Rhys, his brow furrowing a little. "You're not in church, this morning."
"No," Rhys agrees, because that much is obvious. He's not quite sure why, yet, except that something has been itching at the back of his mind and it made him feel like, today, he was in no state for religious worship and the calm cool quiet of the church. "I suppose you might be rubbing off on me."
"Has Will said anything about visiting soon...?"
Sometimes, Rhys wishes he could hit his youngest cousin, just for giving Bran what he so desperately needed and then taking it away. But it's not his fault, Rhys knows that something keeps Will away, something deep and unfathomable and he's seen in his eyes that if he felt he could go to Bran, he would. He'd suggested this -- that Rhys spend more time with Bran, as the only person approaching his age not absurdly afraid of the way he looks.
Truth be told, he thinks, he needs the company more than Bran, nowadays. He'd never have thought, years ago, that he'd get tired of this place, that he'd get restless and unhappy, but he has, and talking to Bran, with all his strange ideas and his otherwordly eyes, has helped define and refine that feeling.
"No," he says, sadly. "He's very busy."
"Oh, I know. I hear you might be moving away."
Rhys shrugs helplessly. "A year ago, I would've said that was a stupid idea."
"I wouldn't've. I'm here for Da, nothing else."
"Nothing else?" he asks, before he can stop himself. Bran looks up at him, sliding off his sunglasses to wipe them clean on his shirt, and the corners of his mouth twitch into the tiniest smile.
"Feeling unloved, are we?"
Rhys looks away again, because sometimes he feels -- stupidly, irrationally, that much he knows -- that Bran's eyes could capture his soul. Will is like that sometimes, too knowing, too penetrating, and yet... this is different. This is something he's never really felt before.
---
Rhys climbs slowly up to where Bran sits. He's afraid he's crying, or worse, just sitting staring blankly into space. He's never known how to deal with grief, and for him Bran's grief cuts so much deeper because now Bran is completely alone: no father, no mother, no family. And there's no easy solution for him, not like with lambs -- no dead lamb's skin to make him another mother, another family.
Bran's face is reassuringly normal, although that shouldn't be normal, considering the fresh grave in the church's tiny graveyard. Rhys moves to sit down next to him, filled with the stupid itch in his palms to touch, to feel, to give comfort.
"Bran?"
"Rhys," he says, blankly. "Thank you for coming up here."
"It's the least I could do." Rhys pauses, looking at Bran, and then looking away, filled with a deep ache for him and an even odder ache of jealousy at just contemplating what he came up here to say. "Will said he'd come, if you want him."
"I don't."
"Wh -- " he starts, and then checks himself. Why is none of his business.
"Why?" Bran shrugs. "Because... he's never been here. I suppose I do know he cares, but there's something going on with him I think I used to understand and I don't understand anymore."
"I've never understood Will," Rhys says, and then before even thinking the words are tumbling out: "I never understood why he couldn't come to see you, because you need people, you always need people, and I've never seen you let anyone in like him. I wanted to -- I want -- "
"Rhys," Bran says, one part amusement, one part exasperation, and the rest still somehow the void of emotion from before. He's reaching up, leaning closer, and before Rhys can even figure things out Bran's kissing him, eager and desperate, so that their teeth click awkwardly and limbs get completely in the way, so that Bran has to draw back quickly -- flushed in embarrassment at the kiss and at the clumsiness. Rhys is dumbstruck.
"Bran..."
"I'm sorry," Bran says, looking away from him with a sudden fierce avoidance that hurts Rhys. So he, in turn, reaches out, and turns Bran's head back to him and leans in for a gentle kiss, a kiss that's all tenderness and no fire, comforting, soothing. He doesn't know why he's doing it, except that it feels right, except that Bran makes him feel right, makes his life fit again.
"Don't be," he says, when he pulls back from that kiss, and awkwardly he puts his hand on Bran's shoulder. "I -- "
"I'm not ready for anything like this," Bran says, suddenly, interrupting him.
That hurts, too, that he should be shown suddenly, like an epiphany, what he's been longing for, and then finding out he can't have it yet. But -- things worth having are worth waiting for, and --
"I can wait."
Pairing: Rhys/Bran
Warnings: Angst, deathfic
Rating: G
Summary: Rhys tries to fill Will's place in Bran's life.
Bran is alone, as always. Once there'd've been a dog with him, of course. But not since Cafall's death, or at least not since Pen got too old and arthritic to be scampering around with anyone, even for pleasure rather than work. There's something otherwordly -- and more than that, horribly remote and lonely -- about Bran: it reminds Rhys of his cousin Will and the quiet ancient sadness that falls over him sometimes.
"Hey," he says, in Welsh, to Bran. Bran looks up, his strange, lovely eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. It's easy to romanticise Bran's loneliness, there's a kind of rightness about the isolation, but Rhys can't quite believe that Bran is quite out of reach, when he smiles. Not yet, at least, or maybe not anymore.
"Hey," Bran says, after a moment. "Is there something...?"
"No."
He raises an eyebrow. Rhys sits down beside him, feeling lanky, ungraceful, even though Bran is near as tall as him now. Somehow Bran went ahead and got the grace people still insist that he'll grow into. "Just wondered if you were okay."
"Why would I not be?"
Rhys shrugs and holds his tongue, because he could say it -- you never are, especially not now -- but it'd be stupid to put words to that, to bring it out between the quiet companionship that has only lately become natural. "You're not moving away to go to university, then?"
Bran shakes his head. "I'm staying here, with Da. At least until -- "
"I know," Rhys says, so that Bran doesn't put words to the even more unspeakable, the fact that Owen Davies is dying, and god knows why. One day he was as strong and as stubborn as ever, going to church as much as or more than ever. And then this; the slow hard death from cancer, and him too stubborn to admit he needs help. "Does he know you don't go to church anymore?"
"I come out here, like. I let him think... he can think what he wants." Bran shrugs and then looks up at Rhys, his brow furrowing a little. "You're not in church, this morning."
"No," Rhys agrees, because that much is obvious. He's not quite sure why, yet, except that something has been itching at the back of his mind and it made him feel like, today, he was in no state for religious worship and the calm cool quiet of the church. "I suppose you might be rubbing off on me."
"Has Will said anything about visiting soon...?"
Sometimes, Rhys wishes he could hit his youngest cousin, just for giving Bran what he so desperately needed and then taking it away. But it's not his fault, Rhys knows that something keeps Will away, something deep and unfathomable and he's seen in his eyes that if he felt he could go to Bran, he would. He'd suggested this -- that Rhys spend more time with Bran, as the only person approaching his age not absurdly afraid of the way he looks.
Truth be told, he thinks, he needs the company more than Bran, nowadays. He'd never have thought, years ago, that he'd get tired of this place, that he'd get restless and unhappy, but he has, and talking to Bran, with all his strange ideas and his otherwordly eyes, has helped define and refine that feeling.
"No," he says, sadly. "He's very busy."
"Oh, I know. I hear you might be moving away."
Rhys shrugs helplessly. "A year ago, I would've said that was a stupid idea."
"I wouldn't've. I'm here for Da, nothing else."
"Nothing else?" he asks, before he can stop himself. Bran looks up at him, sliding off his sunglasses to wipe them clean on his shirt, and the corners of his mouth twitch into the tiniest smile.
"Feeling unloved, are we?"
Rhys looks away again, because sometimes he feels -- stupidly, irrationally, that much he knows -- that Bran's eyes could capture his soul. Will is like that sometimes, too knowing, too penetrating, and yet... this is different. This is something he's never really felt before.
---
Rhys climbs slowly up to where Bran sits. He's afraid he's crying, or worse, just sitting staring blankly into space. He's never known how to deal with grief, and for him Bran's grief cuts so much deeper because now Bran is completely alone: no father, no mother, no family. And there's no easy solution for him, not like with lambs -- no dead lamb's skin to make him another mother, another family.
Bran's face is reassuringly normal, although that shouldn't be normal, considering the fresh grave in the church's tiny graveyard. Rhys moves to sit down next to him, filled with the stupid itch in his palms to touch, to feel, to give comfort.
"Bran?"
"Rhys," he says, blankly. "Thank you for coming up here."
"It's the least I could do." Rhys pauses, looking at Bran, and then looking away, filled with a deep ache for him and an even odder ache of jealousy at just contemplating what he came up here to say. "Will said he'd come, if you want him."
"I don't."
"Wh -- " he starts, and then checks himself. Why is none of his business.
"Why?" Bran shrugs. "Because... he's never been here. I suppose I do know he cares, but there's something going on with him I think I used to understand and I don't understand anymore."
"I've never understood Will," Rhys says, and then before even thinking the words are tumbling out: "I never understood why he couldn't come to see you, because you need people, you always need people, and I've never seen you let anyone in like him. I wanted to -- I want -- "
"Rhys," Bran says, one part amusement, one part exasperation, and the rest still somehow the void of emotion from before. He's reaching up, leaning closer, and before Rhys can even figure things out Bran's kissing him, eager and desperate, so that their teeth click awkwardly and limbs get completely in the way, so that Bran has to draw back quickly -- flushed in embarrassment at the kiss and at the clumsiness. Rhys is dumbstruck.
"Bran..."
"I'm sorry," Bran says, looking away from him with a sudden fierce avoidance that hurts Rhys. So he, in turn, reaches out, and turns Bran's head back to him and leans in for a gentle kiss, a kiss that's all tenderness and no fire, comforting, soothing. He doesn't know why he's doing it, except that it feels right, except that Bran makes him feel right, makes his life fit again.
"Don't be," he says, when he pulls back from that kiss, and awkwardly he puts his hand on Bran's shoulder. "I -- "
"I'm not ready for anything like this," Bran says, suddenly, interrupting him.
That hurts, too, that he should be shown suddenly, like an epiphany, what he's been longing for, and then finding out he can't have it yet. But -- things worth having are worth waiting for, and --
"I can wait."