TDIR: Islands
Fandom: The Dark Is Rising
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst
Rating: G
Summary: After their first blazing row. For over_look.
Their first blazing row comes when Bran is thirteen. The difficult years, claims Jen Evans the next morning, patting his shoulder sympathetically. Owen can't imagine her Rhys rebelling so, but he can barely imagine Bran getting as fierce as he did -- fists clenched at his sides, glaring, and even, just once, cursing.
He realises, though, when he sees Bran up on the hills, alone and staring into space, how isolated he has made them both -- from the world and from each other. That night, he calls Bran into the kitchen and he comes, warily, and they sit at the kitchen table and play cards, and drink tea, and Owen tries to talk to Bran. They're playing snap, and over the steady slap, slap, slap of the cards being put down on the pile, he asks Bran about his friends.
"Just Will," Bran says, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. "And everyone from the farm, of course."
"No friends from school?"
Bran snorts softly. "A freak like me?"
"You're not a freak," Owen says, suddenly and angrily, more vehement than he intended. "A boy your age... you should have friends, people to go out with. You shouldn't always be alone on the hills."
There's a long pause. Bran's glasses slip down his nose and Owen finds that Bran is staring at him coolly, seemingly unmoved. "I am an albino. Too pale to be a proper Welshman. And as for going out... you would not let me."
"Only when you were younger and -- "
"Only when you thought you could keep me on a leash." Bran tips the cards from his hand onto the table carelessly and stands up. "I'm alone mostly because of you, you know. It's all your fault."
And then he leaves the room.
The difficult years. Owen sighs, and stretches his legs out, and wonders how much of it is simply his fault.
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst
Rating: G
Summary: After their first blazing row. For over_look.
Their first blazing row comes when Bran is thirteen. The difficult years, claims Jen Evans the next morning, patting his shoulder sympathetically. Owen can't imagine her Rhys rebelling so, but he can barely imagine Bran getting as fierce as he did -- fists clenched at his sides, glaring, and even, just once, cursing.
He realises, though, when he sees Bran up on the hills, alone and staring into space, how isolated he has made them both -- from the world and from each other. That night, he calls Bran into the kitchen and he comes, warily, and they sit at the kitchen table and play cards, and drink tea, and Owen tries to talk to Bran. They're playing snap, and over the steady slap, slap, slap of the cards being put down on the pile, he asks Bran about his friends.
"Just Will," Bran says, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. "And everyone from the farm, of course."
"No friends from school?"
Bran snorts softly. "A freak like me?"
"You're not a freak," Owen says, suddenly and angrily, more vehement than he intended. "A boy your age... you should have friends, people to go out with. You shouldn't always be alone on the hills."
There's a long pause. Bran's glasses slip down his nose and Owen finds that Bran is staring at him coolly, seemingly unmoved. "I am an albino. Too pale to be a proper Welshman. And as for going out... you would not let me."
"Only when you were younger and -- "
"Only when you thought you could keep me on a leash." Bran tips the cards from his hand onto the table carelessly and stands up. "I'm alone mostly because of you, you know. It's all your fault."
And then he leaves the room.
The difficult years. Owen sighs, and stretches his legs out, and wonders how much of it is simply his fault.