Gates to the garden

[maculategiraffe]

Thank you for all your kind words on the Jer-and-Yves-meeting story (if you missed it, it went thataway).

And so it won't be too late after Easter (although it's way late after the actual vernal equinox), here's your second runner-up at superdoublequick speed: the vernal equinox after this winter solstice.






Ned had arrived at the household wearing a khaki tunic whose back was stained a rich, crimson-tinged brown with dried blood. Bran had washed his back and rubbed salve on the healing welts, while Ned trembled under his hand. Ned had given his evidence, haltingly, to the police, and would be free to testify at the trial of his former owner, but he still had the tendency to back himself into corners when Holden came into the room, until his back touched a wall, when he'd stand wide-eyed and white-faced, obviously awaiting some terrible fate. Bran tended to Ned, as he'd tended once to Lee, speaking softly, soothing him.

As a result, Holden had seen far less of Bran than he preferred, lately. He passed through rooms where Ned and Bran were murmuring together, and didn't pause, or even let his gaze linger too long; he kissed Bran good night, tenderly, trying not to cling, before Bran and Ned went up to bed together.

But tonight Bran came back down, alone, as Holden sat at his desk writing, and put his arms around Holden from behind, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. Holden let the pen fall and leaned back against him, his eyes closed, smiling, breathing Bran in.

"Hey," Bran whispered in his ear.

"Hey, yourself," said Holden, and turned to look up at Bran. "Not ready for bed yet?"

"Whenever you are, sir," Bran answered, lowering his eyelids-- as he so often did, when he used the monosyllable he now substituted so easily for master.

"Me?" Holden asked, distracted by the light trapped in Bran's eyelashes, and Bran's eyes flicked back up, his expression shifting from modesty to mirth so quickly that Holden's breath caught-- as it so often did, still, when he looked at Bran.

"Aren't you going to sleep with me tonight?" Bran asked, dropping to his knees with the quick fluidity of youth, and putting both palms flat on Holden's thigh as he looked up, still smiling. "So we can wake up together in the morning? Don't tell me you forgot what tomorrow is."

"Bran--!" Holden blinked and put a hand to his temple, trying to call up his mental calendar. "I did forget-- is it really? Already?"

"Really already," Bran confirmed, laughing at the look on Holden's face. "It's okay, sir. That's why you have me-- to remind you of the important things in life. So you're coming to bed soon, right? Because I'm not even a little bit sleepy yet."

Holden laughed, too. "Let's see what we can do about that, then, shall we?"






"I'm still not sleepy," Bran said two hours later.

Holden poked him in the ribs. "Is that a challenge?"

"No," said Bran, grabbing his hands and pushing them away with a laugh, and then wiggling closer and pressing his mouth to Holden's naked shoulder. "Holden?"

"Yes," said Holden, alert; even now that he'd grown into greater ease with his freedom, Bran still didn't use his former master's first name all that often.

"Sometime tomorrow," said Bran, "I want to go visit my parents' graves."

"Oh," said Holden, after a moment.

Bran nodded. "Because it's the vernal equinox, tomorrow. I mean, I remember them all the time anyway-- but it's nice to have somewhere to go, isn't it? Will you take me, please?"

"Of course," said Holden.

Bran kissed his shoulder again. "Okay. Thank you... And I'll tell you a story... about my parents. Do you want to hear a story about my parents?"

"Of course," said Holden again, lifting a hand to stroke the warm, curly head that now lay heavy on his chest.

"Will you tell me one, too?" Bran asked. "You're supposed to... remember the dead. On the equinox."

"I don't have any dead to remember," said Holden. "For all I know, my parents are still alive."

Bran traced a finger along the outer shell of his ear. "You've never known a single person who died? Ever?"

"Not well," said Holden.

"Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who did you know not well that died?" Bran asked, his fingers sifting now through Holden's hair.

Holden shrugged. "My sister was born dead-- I guess I didn't know her at all."

Bran's hand went still. "But she was your sister. What was her name?"

"She didn't have a name," said Holden. "She didn't even breathe once. My mother already knew, even before she was born, because she'd stopped kicking. She was angry about having to push her out anyway. All that work and all that pain, for nothing. I guess my dad was glad, though, not to have another mouth to feed."

Bran's hand was moving again, very gently, just brushing over Holden's hair. "How old were you?"

"Nine," said Holden. "Is that enough of a story?"

"Yes," said Bran. "Thank you. Tomorrow I'll tell you one."






Tomorrow, sitting on the grass beside his parents' twin gravestones, he did.

"When I was nine," he said, and stopped and looked up at Holden and said, parenthetically, "You were... thirty-two."

"Please don't do that," said Holden. "Your parents are going to hear you in Valhalla and think I'm a cradle-robber."

"When I was nine," Bran continued, "my parents got sick. My mom first, and then my dad. Once they were really sick, I had to go stay with a neighbor. So I wouldn't get sick too. I wasn't there when they died. But this was before-- right before they got sick. My mother already wasn't feeling her best, and she was letting me help out a lot more in the kitchen, which I loved-- I know this comes as a shock, sir--"

Holden smiled.

"And she put me in charge of making dinner, one night," Bran added, reaching out and brushing his fingers lightly, affectionately, against the inscription on his mother's stone. "I tried really hard to follow all her directions, and most of the dinner came out pretty edible, but there was going to be a pie for dessert-- I loved pie, I always loved anything sweet, when I was a kid--"

He looked up at Holden again, and his brows drew together before he said, "You've got that look on your face again, sir."

"What look?" Holden asked, nonplused.

"The 'how can I ever atone for having enslaved you' look," said Bran.

"Well--"

"You didn't make me a slave," Bran said firmly, "and you did let me have treats on holidays when I belonged to you-- and then you set me free, and since Fox got married I have an entire kitchen of my own and I can bake six pies at once if I want. The point is, I forgot about the pie, and it burned to a crisp-- I think it might have actually burst into flame. And I cried, because I felt so terrible about ruining it, and because I wasn't going to get any. My mom started telling me it was okay, and then I got really mad, because it so obviously wasn't okay-- I mean, the pie was ruined-- and while she was still talking, I yelled at her to stop lying."

He looked up at Holden rather wistfully. "I hardly ever yelled-- especially at my mom. I was just... upset."

"Of course," said Holden.

"So my dad-- he was sitting down-- he reached out and grabbed my shoulders. It sort of startled me, because my parents didn't ever-- grab me, or hit me, or anything. But he wasn't rough, he wasn't trying to scare me, he was just trying to get my attention. And he said-- he didn't yell-- he never raised his voice to me, that I remember-- but he said, 'Bran, you aren't listening.'

"It did get my attention, and I felt terrible because I'd called my mom a liar and hurt her feelings. I said I was sorry, and she said she knew and she forgave me, but she said-- they both said-- I shouldn't ever yell at somebody without listening to them first, and trying to understand what they were saying. That it was one of the worst things you could do to somebody. My dad said, how would I feel if I was trying to explain something, and they refused to listen and just ignored me, and-- punished--"

He stopped talking abruptly, as tears swelled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. Holden reached out and slid a hand into Bran's, which tightened on his, though Bran didn't turn his head.

"After they died--" he started, still staring fixedly at his mother's stone, and tried again after a moment. "Nobody ever-- I wanted so much-- to be good-- like they taught me-- but nobody would--"

The tears were pouring down his face; Holden held his hand, and waited until Bran turned to him and said, more steadily, "Until you. You-- you always listened. You didn't always believe me--" A crooked smile pushed at the corners of his mouth. "But you--"

He turned away again abruptly, nudging at the wetness on his cheek and neck with the shoulder of his tunic, and they sat in silence for a while before Bran said, "Holden?"

"Yes, love," said Holden quietly.

"I think my parents would be proud of you," said Bran.

Holden found himself incapable of speaking for what seemed like quite a long time after that.

"I do," said Bran eventually, lifting his head and looking up at Holden thoughtfully. "I mean, I always thought they'd-- well, like you. If they gave you a chance. And I knew they'd give you a chance-- I knew they'd listen, if I tried to explain-- how you saved me, and what good care you took of me. But now-- now that you've set me free-- when I think about them, now, I don't have to-- well, try to explain. I just-- now-- they'd be, just-- glad. And proud. Of both of us."

His tears spilled down again as he added, "I wish--"

"I know," Holden whispered. "I wish, too."

"You can't really understand, though," said Bran, his voice thick and distorted. "Because you didn't know them. You don't know how-- how great they were. I should tell you more about them, you know? So you understand."

"I'd love to hear more about them," said Holden quietly. "Any time you care to talk about it."

Tears were still slipping, apparently unnoticed, down Bran's face. After a while, he got out, "I don't understand. There are so many-- horrible people. Who should die. Lord Dunaev. Or Ned's master. I don't understand."

"Neither do I," said Holden.

Bran looked up at him, wiping at his tears with the flat of his hand.

"You're one to talk," he said, either jokingly or irritably; it was hard to tell through the tears. "You're going to die too, someday."

"Not for a long, long time," Holden protested.

"You don't know that," said Bran, and placed a tear-wet palm on the earth between his parents' graves. "My parents didn't think they'd die, either. They kept telling me not to worry... when I left... they wouldn't kiss me, in case I got sick, they said it didn't matter, they'd see me soon..."

Holden put his hand over Bran's on the ground. Without looking up, Bran said, "You know what I'm going to do when you die?"

"What?" Holden asked, surprised and a little alarmed.

"Learn to smoke cigarettes."

"The fuck you will!"

Bran grinned down at the ground.

"I'm not kidding," said Holden. "That's a filthy habit-- and do you know how bad it is for your health?"

"Valor will teach me," said Bran, demurely. "She's offered before, but I knew you wouldn't like it."

"You're damn right I wouldn't like it. If I ever catch you with a cigarette--"

"What will you do to me?" Bran asked, looking up through his eyelashes. "Sir?"

"None of that," said Holden. "I won't have you smoking."

"You won't be able to stop me if you're dead," Bran pointed out. "I'll do it over your dead body. Literally."

"Just for that," said Holden, reaching out and dragging Bran closer, between his legs, pulling Bran's back against his chest, "I'm never going to die."

"Oh, no," said Bran, putting his head down on Holden's shoulder. "What have I done."

They rested like that for a little while in silence, before Bran said, "I won't, really. I'll-- be good."

"I know you will," said Holden. "You always have been, and you always will be. Strong, and good."

"But still," said Bran, "don't die."