Fic: The Dark is Rising, Will x Bran, requested by shanaqui
Title: A Prince of Sheep
Requested by: shanaqui, here
Fandom: The Dark is Rising
Pairing/Characters: Bran/Barney, with mentions of other characters
*
Occasionally, Barney would take a break from planned drawings and artworks - which were now the meat and drink of his life at art school - and would instead draw whatever happened to come from his fingers. Oddly enough, the drawings done with the least thought seemed to be his best works, and seemed to contain an eerie ability to reveal more than Barney thought he knew. For instance, there was that time his picture just happened to be of Jane, holding a baby in each arm, done a week before she announced to her family that she and her husband were expecting, and a full month before even she discovered she was expecting twins.
This time, his subject certainly wasn't Jane. The straight lines of the body seemed to indicate that the subject was male - and then Barney's hand moved to sketch in the eyes, and he would have known the owl-like eyes anywhere. Bran Davies. The way Bran was standing, and the expression on his face, seemed to speak of arrogance - no, not arrogance. Nobility, royalty, a kind of rare self-confidence. And there was something on his head, a kind of headband - no, a circlet. A crown - not a king's crown, but a princely coronet.
One of Bran's hands was resting on his hip, while the other dangled at his side, holding something - casually, something comfortable to him. A sword. Not just any sword. A flaming sword, one that Barney might have expected to see in King Arthur's hand - but it fit Bran, as though boy and sword were made for each other. A curious excitement flooded through Barney. He'd never considered it before, but Bran seemed to fit the Arthurian legends perfectly - “Bran Pendragon,” Barney whispered aloud, and the name seemed to ring with a kind of truth.
And now he desperately wanted to see Bran, in person, not just the friendly letters and cards that passed occasionally between Bran and all the Drew children. Barney wanted to show this picture to Bran, to ask him what sort of other world he belonged to, wanted to offer himself to the modern-day Pendragon in whatever capacity he may be desired.
And he wanted to do it alone, he realized with a twist in his gut. He wanted to do it alone, and hoped Bran would require someone to - no, he wouldn't permit himself to dwell on that. First of all, he had no idea if Bran even liked boys in that way - if Bran even liked anyone in that way, come to think of it. And if he did, then wouldn't it be Will Stanton he chose? He'd known Will first, and somehow they seemed bound together.
Well, Barney would take the next opportunity to see Bran, anyway, and show him the picture even if it meant nothing.
*
Sometimes Fate seemed to have an excellent sense of timing, Barney reflected the next day. He had just received a chatty letter from Will, talking about grad school and this and that - but the most important thing that Will mentioned was that his Welsh relatives were looking for an extra pair of hands on the farm during Barney's spring break. “It won't be for much, and they can teach what needs doing - they wrote Mum asking if any of us were free, but of course I've got other plans made up and the others are all off doing this or that. They could hire someone for the little bit that needs doing, but I think they were hoping for a bit of companionship now that their boys have flown the nest, as it were, perhaps even more than a helping hand. I know you loved Wales when we were all there before, and I think you would find plenty to sketch there if you did go - so I'm enclosing my Aunt Jen's address in case you are interested.”
Of course Barney was interested, and he immediately dashed off a letter to Will's Aunt Jen, as well as a note of thanks to Will.
*
The first task the Evanses set for Barney was to accompany Bran to the pasture, to help keep watch over the sheep. Bran had mentioned that being in the pasture was rather a quiet activity, and he tended to bring along something to keep him busy, as the sheep required very little attention unless there was a predator about, they were being moved, or there was a lamb being birthed. Barney filled his backpack with his sketchpad and drawing kit, and Will's Aunt Jen gave him a bagged lunch to add to his supplies, and then it was off to the pasture.
Bran was already there, perched on a stone wall and surveying the flock as a monarch might look over his people. The early morning light slanted at just the right angle to hit his hair and make it glisten with gold, as though Bran wore a crown of light - and suddenly Barney yearned to just freeze time there, to bring his easel and paints, and to spend an eternity committing to memory and canvas this moment, this image of sublime beauty.
Then Bran turned his head and sighted Barney. A grin spread cross the pale features, and Bran stood to welcome Barney. “You're here, then, bachgen. And you've grown.”
Was that a gleam of appreciation in Bran's eye as his gaze swept over Barney's frame? Barney wanted it to be, but dared not hope. “I'm here,” he said simply, not knowing what else to say, not now that he was confronted with this reality and yet everything seemed only half-real, half a figment of some unseen and unknown world, and Bran the most enigmatic piece of the entire puzzle.
“So, Barnabas. I'd tell you about my life since I last saw you, but it's been mostly sheep, and then more sheep. What has been happening with you?”
“Art school, mostly. Some sketching.” Barney pulled out his pad, shrugging.
“May I?” Bran reached for the pad.
Suddenly Barney was nervous about showing his sketch to Bran, nervous about what he would say, even nervous that he might laugh. But he could not deny Bran anything he wanted, could not help but stretch his arm and place the sketchpad in Bran's outstretched hand. He did say, “They're just doodles, some of them,” as a sort of excuse before Bran opened the pad.
Barney studied the pale face as Bran looked over the sketches. Yes, Bran certainly had a kind of otherworldly, princely look to him - but within that look he held countless nuances of expression, more than anyone who did not known Bran would think possible with such a pale face and such strange eyes. Mirth sparkled, golden, in his eyes as he looked at a caricature of one of Barney's professors. When he came to Jane and the babies, there was a kind of loving tenderness that softened his arrogance. Then he came to the picture of himself, and immediately Barney found Bran's expression to be unreadable, to retreat back into the fierce and noble look Bran wore with strangers. “Odd choice of subject matter, this,” he said, and his voice gave away nothing.
“Sometimes I just sketch, and whatever comes out, comes out.”
“The freakish sheep farmer as some sort of prince. You've been too kind, though - I don't think I look nearly macabre enough.”
“It's not supposed to be macabre.”
“No. With this, you'd almost think I was some sort of Prince Charming or something.”
“Well, why not?” Barney's stomach did a half-flip, half-turn as he heard the words leave his mouth.
Bran turned the full impact of his tawny gaze onto Barney. “And what princess will have me for her own, then, for her gallant rescuer? What princess won't flinch away at this pale boy, and think him a monster just like the one he killed for her?”
“Maybe not all princes need a princess,” Barney dared venture.
“So I'm a prince to spend his life alone, is that it? It almost suits me, then, I suppose - a prince of sheep . . .”
“Or with someone who's not a princess.”
“A slave?”
“Someone who loves you. Maybe it won't,” Barney swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Maybe it won't be a girl.”
“Ah! So you'd pair me up with a gentleman, then? Very well, Barnabas Drew, let's hear who you'd match me to - and before sure and choose wisely, mind.”
“Er . . .” Barney couldn't bring himself to say his own name, so immediately fell back on the next person that came to mind, the one he would have bet most likely to have any sort of romantic entanglements with Bran. “Will?”
Bran spluttered. “What!?! Will??”
“Well, you're close, aren't you?”
“Close... he's like a brother to me. I don't see him... he's not... he might,” Bran finally said, calming down just enough, “Because he does things, sometimes, that no one can understand, but it wouldn't be...” he spread his hands wide, lost for words, but the eloquence of his expression was more than any words.
“So then...” Barney still couldn't bring himself to suggest his own name, didn't quite have that courage. “Well, my prince, what would you want, then, in your not-princess?”
“Now you ask me what I want.”
“Yes.” And suddenly Barney felt taken by a silly mood. “I must know your requirements so that I might scour the land for an appropriate consort for my dear prince.”
“Prince of sheep, you might say.”
“Fine, my dear prince of sheep, but quite deserving of an ideal consort.”
“Let's see. I want someone who knows how to laugh and to dream.”
Barney pretended to scribe those points on an imaginary list with an imaginary quill, winning a slight smirk from Bran. “Someone with an open heart and mind.” Another scribble, then Barney went back to watching expectantly. “Someone involved in the arts, I think, who can understand how I love the harp. It wouldn't have to be music, though, just something...” and the tawny eyes went to the sketchbook, Bran's expression almost wistful.
Barney felt a slight bubbling of hope in his chest. “Someone younger or older or the same age?”
“Certainly not a child, or a dying old man, but a few years either way makes little difference.”
“Appearance?”
“Well, I do get tired of being the only light-haired one about. I wouldn't mind a blond, for all that.” And now Bran was looking thoughtfully at Barney.
“An art student, maybe, a couple years younger than you?” Barney felt as though he was talking around his heart, which was in his mouth.
“Mmm, I like the sound of that. Is he anywhere near as clever and clear-sighted as you?” Bran asked.
“Oh, quite exactly like me,” Barney replied, and before he knew much of what was happening, Bran was with him and their lips were pressed together.
Never had he known a kiss so sweet, so fiery, so - beautiful. If only it could go on forever, his hands feeling the lean muscles of Bran's body, the dance of their lips, like a conversation, like a kindling fire, like crystals and harp song and more involving than even the most intense artwork Barney had ever done...
Finally, though, Bran broke the contact of their lips, stepping back slightly - keeping his hands on Barney's hips, not too far back, close enough that Barney could feel his warmth but not as close as Barney wanted him to be. For a moment he considered pushing himself forward to resume the contact between their bodies - that would have been nice - but he could not make such a demand of his prince, who now studied him with soft light in his eyes, an expression that Barney very much wanted to capture but felt beyond his ability to portray.
“D-do you find your consort acceptable, my prince?” Barney finally managed through swollen lips.
“Quite. In fact, I would love to continue kissing him, despite the fact that all my royal subjects are looking on, but I fear that I might get just a bit carried away.”
“That's...” Barney had never seriously considered making love before, but suddenly found that he wanted to, never mind what other people might say or think. Bran was all that mattered. “That's fine.”
“Not here. Later.” Bran pressed a fierce kiss to Barney's lips that was over before it had begun, and then released Barney and stepped back. “We'd best keep our heads; occasionally someone will come up to check on things or do some work in the area.”
What did it matter if anyone knew how much he loved Bran, how he would do anything for Bran?
No, it did matter. Barney suddenly remembered that Bran's father was a deacon - would Bran hate that Barney had shared kisses with him, had lured him into kissing him? Was he already starting to resent Barney for his slips?
“Don't look like that!” Bran said sharply. “You look like a puppy who's wet in the house. Bah! I'm sorry if you didn't want that. I'll stay away from you, if you like, just don't hate me.”
“No,” Barney said, suddenly not sure of what to say or do or feel. “I-I didn't mean to make you kiss me. I liked it. But I don't want you to get mad, because of your father...”
“My father...” Bran began, then stopped, looking suddenly lost for a moment - an expression that vanished a moment later, and if Barney didn't have such a good visual memory, he would have sworn that the lost expression had never flickered across Bran's features. “You worry about Owen Davies,” Bran said.
“Isn't he a deacon? Isn't it... this... a sin, or something?”
“I suppose he would consider it so, yes. That does not mean that I do. There is more in heaven, earth, and hell than Owen Davies will ever know.”
“So you're not going to be angry with me, then?”
“Of course not - not for that, anyway. Though I wouldn't like you to go telling just anyone. There's folks that will understand and folks that won't, quite, and I'd like time to be prepared for the second sort.”
“I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to.”
“We'll see who we can tell, and decide together, my lovely consort.” Bran reached out and touched the tips of his fingers to Barney's cheeks, which burned with a cool fire and made Barney's heart thud against his ribcage. Part of him wanted to reach up and capture Bran's hand against his cheek, but his arms betrayed him and would not move, and all too quickly Bran let his hand fall again. “Go to your sketching, then, Barnabas Drew, and we can talk about things and get to know one another better, for I fear we know little enough of each other as it is, especially considering our situation.”
So the prince of sheep perched on his post and watched as Barney sketched, and they talked a long time, and traded looks and smiles and secrets. Barney found himself telling Bran about how he had first been kissed by another boy at art school, after they both had had a bit too much to drink, and how he had liked it better than kissing girls and been afraid to tell anyone, even Jane, who seemed to know him best and who he thought would be the most likely one of his family to understand. Bran told him about sneaking to a harp competition knowing how much it would hurt Owen Davies to be disobeyed by his son but not even caring beside how much he wanted to play, and about how the harp was his closest friend when he was a child, besides Cafall. Barney told him about being the youngest, and how much it hurt him when Simon and Jane thought he was too young for their games and would go off and play without him because he was the baby. Bran confessed his hating the isolation bestowed upon him by his pale skin and rural lifestyle. Barney confessed his adoration of Bran's otherworldly appearance, and they debated fairy tales and mythology until the time came to bring the sheep back to the fold and go for some supper.
“Da's going to be away this Wednesday. Perhaps you should come and help me with my chores then.” Bran smirked.
Barney's heart raced. “I'd love to.”
“For now, though, I fear we must walk our separate paths a while. Give me one last kiss before we part, for I seem to remember being the one who always starts our kisses, and I think it is your turn.”
“We've only had two,” Barney retorted, and then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Bran's just as he had been longing to do. He grabbed Bran's shoulders and tried to pull him even closer; Bran ran his fingers through Barney's hair and rested them at the nape of his neck, sending electricity pulsing through his body.
Reluctantly, they parted. “I wish a kiss could go on forever,” Barney sighed.
“Nothing is forever, Barnabas Drew, but what comes after may well improve on what comes before.”
And so they parted, each boy looking forward to their next meeting and a bright tomorrow.
Requested by: shanaqui, here
Fandom: The Dark is Rising
Pairing/Characters: Bran/Barney, with mentions of other characters
*
Occasionally, Barney would take a break from planned drawings and artworks - which were now the meat and drink of his life at art school - and would instead draw whatever happened to come from his fingers. Oddly enough, the drawings done with the least thought seemed to be his best works, and seemed to contain an eerie ability to reveal more than Barney thought he knew. For instance, there was that time his picture just happened to be of Jane, holding a baby in each arm, done a week before she announced to her family that she and her husband were expecting, and a full month before even she discovered she was expecting twins.
This time, his subject certainly wasn't Jane. The straight lines of the body seemed to indicate that the subject was male - and then Barney's hand moved to sketch in the eyes, and he would have known the owl-like eyes anywhere. Bran Davies. The way Bran was standing, and the expression on his face, seemed to speak of arrogance - no, not arrogance. Nobility, royalty, a kind of rare self-confidence. And there was something on his head, a kind of headband - no, a circlet. A crown - not a king's crown, but a princely coronet.
One of Bran's hands was resting on his hip, while the other dangled at his side, holding something - casually, something comfortable to him. A sword. Not just any sword. A flaming sword, one that Barney might have expected to see in King Arthur's hand - but it fit Bran, as though boy and sword were made for each other. A curious excitement flooded through Barney. He'd never considered it before, but Bran seemed to fit the Arthurian legends perfectly - “Bran Pendragon,” Barney whispered aloud, and the name seemed to ring with a kind of truth.
And now he desperately wanted to see Bran, in person, not just the friendly letters and cards that passed occasionally between Bran and all the Drew children. Barney wanted to show this picture to Bran, to ask him what sort of other world he belonged to, wanted to offer himself to the modern-day Pendragon in whatever capacity he may be desired.
And he wanted to do it alone, he realized with a twist in his gut. He wanted to do it alone, and hoped Bran would require someone to - no, he wouldn't permit himself to dwell on that. First of all, he had no idea if Bran even liked boys in that way - if Bran even liked anyone in that way, come to think of it. And if he did, then wouldn't it be Will Stanton he chose? He'd known Will first, and somehow they seemed bound together.
Well, Barney would take the next opportunity to see Bran, anyway, and show him the picture even if it meant nothing.
*
Sometimes Fate seemed to have an excellent sense of timing, Barney reflected the next day. He had just received a chatty letter from Will, talking about grad school and this and that - but the most important thing that Will mentioned was that his Welsh relatives were looking for an extra pair of hands on the farm during Barney's spring break. “It won't be for much, and they can teach what needs doing - they wrote Mum asking if any of us were free, but of course I've got other plans made up and the others are all off doing this or that. They could hire someone for the little bit that needs doing, but I think they were hoping for a bit of companionship now that their boys have flown the nest, as it were, perhaps even more than a helping hand. I know you loved Wales when we were all there before, and I think you would find plenty to sketch there if you did go - so I'm enclosing my Aunt Jen's address in case you are interested.”
Of course Barney was interested, and he immediately dashed off a letter to Will's Aunt Jen, as well as a note of thanks to Will.
*
The first task the Evanses set for Barney was to accompany Bran to the pasture, to help keep watch over the sheep. Bran had mentioned that being in the pasture was rather a quiet activity, and he tended to bring along something to keep him busy, as the sheep required very little attention unless there was a predator about, they were being moved, or there was a lamb being birthed. Barney filled his backpack with his sketchpad and drawing kit, and Will's Aunt Jen gave him a bagged lunch to add to his supplies, and then it was off to the pasture.
Bran was already there, perched on a stone wall and surveying the flock as a monarch might look over his people. The early morning light slanted at just the right angle to hit his hair and make it glisten with gold, as though Bran wore a crown of light - and suddenly Barney yearned to just freeze time there, to bring his easel and paints, and to spend an eternity committing to memory and canvas this moment, this image of sublime beauty.
Then Bran turned his head and sighted Barney. A grin spread cross the pale features, and Bran stood to welcome Barney. “You're here, then, bachgen. And you've grown.”
Was that a gleam of appreciation in Bran's eye as his gaze swept over Barney's frame? Barney wanted it to be, but dared not hope. “I'm here,” he said simply, not knowing what else to say, not now that he was confronted with this reality and yet everything seemed only half-real, half a figment of some unseen and unknown world, and Bran the most enigmatic piece of the entire puzzle.
“So, Barnabas. I'd tell you about my life since I last saw you, but it's been mostly sheep, and then more sheep. What has been happening with you?”
“Art school, mostly. Some sketching.” Barney pulled out his pad, shrugging.
“May I?” Bran reached for the pad.
Suddenly Barney was nervous about showing his sketch to Bran, nervous about what he would say, even nervous that he might laugh. But he could not deny Bran anything he wanted, could not help but stretch his arm and place the sketchpad in Bran's outstretched hand. He did say, “They're just doodles, some of them,” as a sort of excuse before Bran opened the pad.
Barney studied the pale face as Bran looked over the sketches. Yes, Bran certainly had a kind of otherworldly, princely look to him - but within that look he held countless nuances of expression, more than anyone who did not known Bran would think possible with such a pale face and such strange eyes. Mirth sparkled, golden, in his eyes as he looked at a caricature of one of Barney's professors. When he came to Jane and the babies, there was a kind of loving tenderness that softened his arrogance. Then he came to the picture of himself, and immediately Barney found Bran's expression to be unreadable, to retreat back into the fierce and noble look Bran wore with strangers. “Odd choice of subject matter, this,” he said, and his voice gave away nothing.
“Sometimes I just sketch, and whatever comes out, comes out.”
“The freakish sheep farmer as some sort of prince. You've been too kind, though - I don't think I look nearly macabre enough.”
“It's not supposed to be macabre.”
“No. With this, you'd almost think I was some sort of Prince Charming or something.”
“Well, why not?” Barney's stomach did a half-flip, half-turn as he heard the words leave his mouth.
Bran turned the full impact of his tawny gaze onto Barney. “And what princess will have me for her own, then, for her gallant rescuer? What princess won't flinch away at this pale boy, and think him a monster just like the one he killed for her?”
“Maybe not all princes need a princess,” Barney dared venture.
“So I'm a prince to spend his life alone, is that it? It almost suits me, then, I suppose - a prince of sheep . . .”
“Or with someone who's not a princess.”
“A slave?”
“Someone who loves you. Maybe it won't,” Barney swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Maybe it won't be a girl.”
“Ah! So you'd pair me up with a gentleman, then? Very well, Barnabas Drew, let's hear who you'd match me to - and before sure and choose wisely, mind.”
“Er . . .” Barney couldn't bring himself to say his own name, so immediately fell back on the next person that came to mind, the one he would have bet most likely to have any sort of romantic entanglements with Bran. “Will?”
Bran spluttered. “What!?! Will??”
“Well, you're close, aren't you?”
“Close... he's like a brother to me. I don't see him... he's not... he might,” Bran finally said, calming down just enough, “Because he does things, sometimes, that no one can understand, but it wouldn't be...” he spread his hands wide, lost for words, but the eloquence of his expression was more than any words.
“So then...” Barney still couldn't bring himself to suggest his own name, didn't quite have that courage. “Well, my prince, what would you want, then, in your not-princess?”
“Now you ask me what I want.”
“Yes.” And suddenly Barney felt taken by a silly mood. “I must know your requirements so that I might scour the land for an appropriate consort for my dear prince.”
“Prince of sheep, you might say.”
“Fine, my dear prince of sheep, but quite deserving of an ideal consort.”
“Let's see. I want someone who knows how to laugh and to dream.”
Barney pretended to scribe those points on an imaginary list with an imaginary quill, winning a slight smirk from Bran. “Someone with an open heart and mind.” Another scribble, then Barney went back to watching expectantly. “Someone involved in the arts, I think, who can understand how I love the harp. It wouldn't have to be music, though, just something...” and the tawny eyes went to the sketchbook, Bran's expression almost wistful.
Barney felt a slight bubbling of hope in his chest. “Someone younger or older or the same age?”
“Certainly not a child, or a dying old man, but a few years either way makes little difference.”
“Appearance?”
“Well, I do get tired of being the only light-haired one about. I wouldn't mind a blond, for all that.” And now Bran was looking thoughtfully at Barney.
“An art student, maybe, a couple years younger than you?” Barney felt as though he was talking around his heart, which was in his mouth.
“Mmm, I like the sound of that. Is he anywhere near as clever and clear-sighted as you?” Bran asked.
“Oh, quite exactly like me,” Barney replied, and before he knew much of what was happening, Bran was with him and their lips were pressed together.
Never had he known a kiss so sweet, so fiery, so - beautiful. If only it could go on forever, his hands feeling the lean muscles of Bran's body, the dance of their lips, like a conversation, like a kindling fire, like crystals and harp song and more involving than even the most intense artwork Barney had ever done...
Finally, though, Bran broke the contact of their lips, stepping back slightly - keeping his hands on Barney's hips, not too far back, close enough that Barney could feel his warmth but not as close as Barney wanted him to be. For a moment he considered pushing himself forward to resume the contact between their bodies - that would have been nice - but he could not make such a demand of his prince, who now studied him with soft light in his eyes, an expression that Barney very much wanted to capture but felt beyond his ability to portray.
“D-do you find your consort acceptable, my prince?” Barney finally managed through swollen lips.
“Quite. In fact, I would love to continue kissing him, despite the fact that all my royal subjects are looking on, but I fear that I might get just a bit carried away.”
“That's...” Barney had never seriously considered making love before, but suddenly found that he wanted to, never mind what other people might say or think. Bran was all that mattered. “That's fine.”
“Not here. Later.” Bran pressed a fierce kiss to Barney's lips that was over before it had begun, and then released Barney and stepped back. “We'd best keep our heads; occasionally someone will come up to check on things or do some work in the area.”
What did it matter if anyone knew how much he loved Bran, how he would do anything for Bran?
No, it did matter. Barney suddenly remembered that Bran's father was a deacon - would Bran hate that Barney had shared kisses with him, had lured him into kissing him? Was he already starting to resent Barney for his slips?
“Don't look like that!” Bran said sharply. “You look like a puppy who's wet in the house. Bah! I'm sorry if you didn't want that. I'll stay away from you, if you like, just don't hate me.”
“No,” Barney said, suddenly not sure of what to say or do or feel. “I-I didn't mean to make you kiss me. I liked it. But I don't want you to get mad, because of your father...”
“My father...” Bran began, then stopped, looking suddenly lost for a moment - an expression that vanished a moment later, and if Barney didn't have such a good visual memory, he would have sworn that the lost expression had never flickered across Bran's features. “You worry about Owen Davies,” Bran said.
“Isn't he a deacon? Isn't it... this... a sin, or something?”
“I suppose he would consider it so, yes. That does not mean that I do. There is more in heaven, earth, and hell than Owen Davies will ever know.”
“So you're not going to be angry with me, then?”
“Of course not - not for that, anyway. Though I wouldn't like you to go telling just anyone. There's folks that will understand and folks that won't, quite, and I'd like time to be prepared for the second sort.”
“I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to.”
“We'll see who we can tell, and decide together, my lovely consort.” Bran reached out and touched the tips of his fingers to Barney's cheeks, which burned with a cool fire and made Barney's heart thud against his ribcage. Part of him wanted to reach up and capture Bran's hand against his cheek, but his arms betrayed him and would not move, and all too quickly Bran let his hand fall again. “Go to your sketching, then, Barnabas Drew, and we can talk about things and get to know one another better, for I fear we know little enough of each other as it is, especially considering our situation.”
So the prince of sheep perched on his post and watched as Barney sketched, and they talked a long time, and traded looks and smiles and secrets. Barney found himself telling Bran about how he had first been kissed by another boy at art school, after they both had had a bit too much to drink, and how he had liked it better than kissing girls and been afraid to tell anyone, even Jane, who seemed to know him best and who he thought would be the most likely one of his family to understand. Bran told him about sneaking to a harp competition knowing how much it would hurt Owen Davies to be disobeyed by his son but not even caring beside how much he wanted to play, and about how the harp was his closest friend when he was a child, besides Cafall. Barney told him about being the youngest, and how much it hurt him when Simon and Jane thought he was too young for their games and would go off and play without him because he was the baby. Bran confessed his hating the isolation bestowed upon him by his pale skin and rural lifestyle. Barney confessed his adoration of Bran's otherworldly appearance, and they debated fairy tales and mythology until the time came to bring the sheep back to the fold and go for some supper.
“Da's going to be away this Wednesday. Perhaps you should come and help me with my chores then.” Bran smirked.
Barney's heart raced. “I'd love to.”
“For now, though, I fear we must walk our separate paths a while. Give me one last kiss before we part, for I seem to remember being the one who always starts our kisses, and I think it is your turn.”
“We've only had two,” Barney retorted, and then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Bran's just as he had been longing to do. He grabbed Bran's shoulders and tried to pull him even closer; Bran ran his fingers through Barney's hair and rested them at the nape of his neck, sending electricity pulsing through his body.
Reluctantly, they parted. “I wish a kiss could go on forever,” Barney sighed.
“Nothing is forever, Barnabas Drew, but what comes after may well improve on what comes before.”
And so they parted, each boy looking forward to their next meeting and a bright tomorrow.