Questions and answers

[maculategiraffe]

I.

Though Yves had spoken of nursing Bran through "baby's first hangover," the first morning of his former slaves' freedom found Holden least worried about Bran. Jer was silent and sullen, and Yves was snappish and irritable; Bran just blinked and rubbed at his eyes and accepted whatever Holden offered him-- water, aspirin, ginger tea-- with vague, pleasant thanks. His youth seemed to help him bounce back quickest, too; he was sitting up soon, and when Holden left to fetch Yves another cup of water, he returned to find Bran gone from the bed.

"Where'd Bran go?" he asked, and Yves answered, "Probably to go play a few rounds of racquetball, the little punk," and Holden didn't think too much more of it until Yves and Jer were back on their feet too, brushing off his offers of further service. Then he went looking for Bran.

He found the boy in his room, sitting naked on the bed, staring at nothing. Beside him, crumpled, was one of the new tunics Holden had bought for him in preparation for his freedom: navy blue trimmed in silver, with a tan, silver-buckled belt lying nearby on the bed.

"Bran?" said Holden quietly, not wanting to startle him, but Bran didn't turn his head. "Sweetheart? Can I come in?"

Bran still didn't move or answer. Holden came into the room, shutting the door behind him; he went to Bran, knelt down on the floor, putting his hands on Bran's knees, and looked up into the white, drawn face.

"Bran," he said. "Talk to me?"

After a moment, Bran said, "What did you do with my-- my other clothes?"

"I put them in one of the linen closets," said Holden. "I thought-- they could be reused."

"I want them back," said Bran, and jerked his head at the blue tunic, without looking at it. "That-- I don't like it."

Holden nodded. "It will probably take some getting used to."

Bran shifted restlessly, then turned and lay down abruptly on the bed, on his side, with his back to Holden.

Holden rose, a little stiffly, from his knees, and lay down on the bed behind Bran. After a moment, half fearing a rebuff, but unable to resist the comfort that the contact brought, he reached out and began to caress Bran's naked back. Bran's skin was warm, smooth, firm, his ribs well covered; Holden thought of the skin-and-bone fragility of Bran's malnourished body when he'd first lifted the eighteen-year-old in his arms.

"Are you okay?" he asked, after a while.

"It's just," said Bran, without turning to look at him. "Yesterday, I was a slave. Your slave. And today-- I don't really know what I am."

"I know who you are, my Bran," said Holden, still stroking. "You're the one who was strong enough to trust me, and care for me-- and brave enough to risk everything to stay with me. Stubborn enough to keep loving me, and generous enough to forgive me for not admitting I loved you back. Sweet enough to accept everyone else I love, and dear enough that none of them could help loving you, too. You're the one who saved Lee, and brought him back to us, and helped him grow strong enough to leave. And you're the one who helped me grow strong enough-- for this."

Bran was trembling now, under Holden's hand. After a minute he said, unsteadily, "I've-- I've done well-- haven't I?"

"You know you have, Bran," said Holden softly. "You don't need me to tell you."

"Yes I do." Bran rolled over suddenly to face Holden; his eyes were wide and glassy in his pale face. "I do need it. And until-- now-- if you said I was good enough, I was. Don't you understand?"

"Yes," said Holden. "I do."

"Then why did you do this to me?" Bran asked, his cheeks flushing red even as the rest of his face stayed pale; he looked as he had when he'd been delirious with fever. "What the hell do I know about being a free man? How will I know if I'm doing it right?"

"You won't," said Holden. "But you're lucky, because you've got people to love you, and help you, and forgive you. And we will. I will. Just like you've always forgiven me."

Bran stared at him without speaking.

"I do understand, Bran," Holden said, his voice wavering too, despite his best efforts at control. "It's been almost thirty years for me-- but I still remember how it felt. Knowing I was good. Feeling that safe."

"But you weren't," said Bran, after a long pause. "Safe."

"Neither were you," said Holden. "But we both got to think we were, for a while."

"I liked thinking it," said Bran, his mouth quivering.

"Oh, love." Holden pulled Bran close, feeling silent sobs begin to rack the strong young body. "Me too. I did too."

Bran didn't cry for very long. After a couple of minutes, he pulled out of Holden's arms, sat up, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and picked up the blue tunic. He shook it out, examined it for wrinkles, then stood up, pulled it over his head and smoothed it down past his waist. Then he picked up the belt, cinched it around his waist, and buckled it. He stood still for a moment, looking at nothing in particular, before he glanced at Holden, who was sitting up by now, watching him.

"What?" said Bran.

"Nothing," said Holden. "I knew I should have insisted on blue as our household color. You look fantastic."

"I think I'll like buying my own clothes," said Bran thoughtfully. "I've never had-- my own money. That I earned." He smiled at Holden. "I'm going to buy you things, too."

"Don't do that," said Holden, smiling back. "You shouldn't spend your money on me."

"I will if I want," said Bran, wiping away the remnant of a tear-track from the side of his face. "And you can't stop me-- Holden."

---

II.


Q. What was your horse's name?
A. What?

Q. Didn't you tell me Pavel gave you a horse for your nineteenth birthday?
A. Your memory is terrifyingly good.

Q. What did you call it?
A. Callista.

Q. It was a mare?
A. Yes. Chestnut.

Q. Saddle bred?
A. Yes.

Q. I've never ridden a horse. What's it like?
A. Well, I fell off a lot.

Q. You did?
A. Callista didn't seem to like me that much... Harbinger of things to come.





Q. Were you dreaming?
A. Yes.

Q. What about?
A. My mother.

Q. Was it a bad dream?
A. No.

Q. Then why are you crying?
A. Because I woke up.






Q. When is Yves coming to visit?
A. Four weeks and three days. Not that I'm counting.

Q. Do you think he misses us?
A. When he has time.

Q. How can he stay away so long?
A. This is something he needs to do.

Q. I couldn't stand it. Living with strangers. Away from home. Could you?
A. No. You and I are alike that way.





Q. What was your mother's name?
A. Helen.

Q. What did she look like?
A. She had blue eyes-- dark blue. And dark hair. She was beautiful.

Q. How old were you when she died?
A. Nine.

Q. Do you not want to talk about this?
A. There's just not that much to say.





Q. Why don't you beat me?
A. What?

Q. You used to beat Yves. And then you and Jer used to fight. Now you don't have anyone else to hit. Why don't you ever hit me?
A. Bran, I feel bad about ever doing it to Yves. Or even Jer. Not so much Jer, I guess-- because he fought back. It's not right to hit someone who can't hit back. ...Really, it's still not right if they can only hit back because you give them permission. I guess I don't think hitting a slave is ever okay. Well, I don't think owning a slave is okay, any more. So.

Q. But I'm not a slave any more.
A. So?

Q. So what if I didn't mind?
A. Let's not talk about this right now, okay?




Q. What did you just call me?
A. Oops.

Q. Did you say "master"?
A. Force of habit. Sorry.

Q. Well, you can see how offended I am, can't you?
A. Yes. Very deeply. So very sorry-- sir.





Q. What's this?
A. This is something I want you to bear in mind.

Q. Why is my name on it?
A. Look inside.

Q. What's this for?
A. This is for if you ever decide to take off.

Q. Take off?
A. So you'll have everything you need. Papers, your bank book, a little bit of cash--

Q. Are you crazy?
A. I just wanted you to know it was here for you. Any time you want it. You don't have to ask for it. It's yours.





Q. Do you ever miss being a slave?
A. Sometimes.

Q. What do you miss?
A. It was just simpler.

Q. Not having options, you mean?
A. Yes. And I miss Yves and Jer.

Q. Me too.
A. I know.






Q. Do you really still worry I'll decide to leave you?
A. Sometimes.

Q. Why would you think that?
A. I've never understood how you could love me.

Q. Why shouldn't I love you?
A. After the way I treated you at first.

Q. What was wrong with that?
A. With letting you suck my cock to try to dissuade me from torturing you to death?

Q. Well, it worked, didn't it?
A. It's not funny.





Q. What's wrong?
A. Nothing.

Q. What is it?
A. For some reason I keep thinking about stupid stuff like--

Q. Like what?
A. Like when I got sold.

Q. Will you tell me?
A. I just. I guess you never. Pavel bought you straight from your parents. It was a sort of... warehouse, I guess. There were three other kids there. A room with a concrete floor.

Q. Did you understand what was happening?
A. Yes. No. Not really.

Q. The floor was concrete?
A. Cold. It was so cold it hurt.

Q. Are you sure you don't want me to track down your grandfather and kill him?
A. I'm sure. Thank you.





Q. What was your first time like?
A. Mine? It was beautiful. Gentle. Satin sheets.

Q. Do you still love him?
A. What? Who?

Q. Pavel. Do you still love him?
A. I don't know. Part of me maybe. Something like love. I don't know.

Q. Do you love me more than him?
A. Yes, of course.

Q. Just checking.
A. You are a deeply silly person.




Q. I mean-- why didn't I untie your legs right away?
A. I was a runaway.

Q. Why didn't I pull you up in my lap and hold you?
A. I might have bitten you. I bit a lot when they caught me.

Q. You did?
A. You gave me water. You stroked my hair. You told me I was being good.

Q. Well, aren't I fucking magnanimous?
A. Holden, stop it.




Q. Now that Yves and Jer are gone, are you just going to beat yourself up for catharsis?
A. Um.




Q. What would make you leave me?
A. Nothing.

Q. Nothing?
A. Nothing I can think of.

Q. What if I ask too many questions?
A. Kissing you seems to work.