maculategiraffe

...Slave Breakers summer solstice fic. Part of the post-Lee series begun here (winter solstice) and here (spring equinox).

Dear Holden, happy summer solstice. You know I don't usually celebrate it, so I hope you don't mind the unorthodox form of giftage. This kid seemed really enthusiastic about the whole idea of solstice celebration with an attractive older man, so if you play your cards right, you might even get lucky. I love you. Yves.

Holden had to pull the sheet all the way down Bran's back to finish reading the message that had been inked onto his skin in careful black marker. Then he laid a hand on Bran's shoulder, and Bran stirred, turned over, and smiled sleepily up at him.

"Hey," he said.

Holden lay back down and pulled him close, and Bran threw a leg over Holden's thigh, cuddling even closer.

"What did Yves write?" he murmured in Holden's ear.

Holden laughed. "He didn't tell you?"

Bran shook his head. "He just said he'd been monopolizing you his whole vacation and I could have you for tomorrow, and he'd write a note to make it official, and then he turned me over and wrote it. It seemed sort of long, though."

"You know Yves." Holden ran a hand over Bran's back, across the writing he couldn't see from here. "Want me to read it to you?"

"Not right now," said Bran, and wiggled with sudden wide-awake agility down Holden's body. "Unless you can read it upside down."

About an hour later, he added, closing his eyes again as he lay half pinned under Holden, "Better go to sleep now. Big day tomorrow."

"Oh, really? You've got plans?"

"Mmmhmm," said Bran. "You'll see."

"Give me a hint," Holden wheedled.

"No," said Bran. "Now the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner it will be the solstice."

The next morning, Bran kissed him awake, and they made slow langorous love for so long that they were late for breakfast. Alix, Greta, and Yves smiled indulgently at them when they finally appeared, tousled and sleepy-eyed.

"Happy solstice," said Yves, winking at Holden, who grinned back at him, wondering if there was anyone else who was under the illusion he was the luckiest man in the world. Poor deluded bastard, if so.

"Bran says you'll need the car for most of today," said Alix. "Fox already packed you some things to eat."

"Are you driving?" Holden asked Bran, with some trepidation, and Bran said, "Only if you promise not to spend the entire time slamming down on the imaginary brake."

Holden squinted at him. "I promise nothing."

"Bran drives better than youdo," Alix told Holden. "Bran, dear, the car keys are hanging up in the hall. He's got to get used to it eventually."

"I'm driving, then," said Bran. "That way I don't have to tell you where we're going first. It'll be a surprise."

"I hate surprises," Holden protested.

"Then how come you always surprise me with everything?"

"I hate being surprised," Holden amended.

"What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander," said Greta, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Don't tell him anything, Bran."

They didn't leave right after breakfast-- Holden had some paperwork to attend to, a couple of thank-you letters to write for donations to the business, and a few calls to make on behalf of their latest-placed ex-slave-- so it was nearly lunchtime by the time Bran, jangling the car keys at him, drew him up from his desk and led him outside to the car.

Bran turned out to be a pretty good driver-- certainly more cautious and conservative than Holden, and meticulous about the use of his turn signal-- even when they turned off the main road and proceeded bumpily towards the forest where Bran's last runaway attempt had ended up, and where, since then, Holden and Bran had celebrated each summer solstice and vernal equinox with a bonfire. No real surprise there, although it was a bit of a surprise that they'd headed for the bonfire site so early in the day. Usually bonfires were twilight affairs, and on the summer solstice twilight came even later than usual.

Bran parked the car at the outskirts of the forest, popped the trunk, and took out a large picnic basket. Holden reached out and took it from him, and Bran let him carry it as they walked through the dappled shadows and singing birds of the forest, their boots crunching on the leaves and twigs and occasional insects underfoot. Bran led them straight to the bonfire site, where a fire was laid and ready, the brush carefully cleared away from the neat circle of stones.

"I got it all ready, this time," said Bran happily. "I drove out here by myself, yesterday. Okay. Lunch first."

He took the picnic basket from Holden, opened it, and took out a neatly-folded, nearly-flat canvas sack that Holden recognized as the one he'd used to carry the ropes to their first bonfire. The ropes that had tied Bran's wrists and ankles, the first time Holden saw him; the ones that had vanished from Bran's nightmares after their ceremonial incineration. So many of Holden's memories of Bran, before his freedom, were tainted with the belated understanding of Holden's own blindness and cowardice, but Holden felt a surge of uncomplicated good feeling at the memory of tossing those ropes on the fire for Bran to watch as they burned.

"What's in the bag?" he asked Bran, who had laid it aside and was shaking out a red blanket, spreading it on the ground for them to sit on.

Bran smiled at him, gesturing him to sit down on the blanket. "You'll see."

He sat down himself, and unpacked neatly wrapped sandwiches, fruit, and flasks of tea. They ate unhurriedly, the shade of the trees and a cool breeze easing the heat of the day. Bran was in a talkative mood, maybe because he and Holden hadn't really gotten a chance to talk for a while, what with Yves' vacation.

"I was thinking," he said, "that sometime-- not today, because it's a holiday-- but maybe the next time we go see my parents--" He'd taken to putting it that way, instead of my parents' graves; it gave Holden an odd but not unpleasant feeling, as if Bran had actually taken him to meet his parents, and he'd been invited back. "--we should stop by my old house and see Hilda again. She might not even know I'm free, and if she's been worrying about me-- well, it would be nice for her to see me like this, wouldn't it?"

"It would be nice for anyone to see you like this," said Holden, smiling, and Bran grinned back.

"And her baby's been born by now; we could meet it, too," he said. "And maybe her husband. She felt so bad for me, that one day we visited, you know? She almost cried, and it was awful, because-- well, I told her I was okay, I told her you were really good to me, but it was still awful. She said-- did I tell you this? I didn't, did I? I didn't know what you'd-- but she said if I ever ran away from you, she'd take me in, she'd hide me. Wasn't that just-- I thought that was so nice of her. She meant it, too."

"Maybe you didn't tell me just to keep your options open," Holden suggested, and Bran laughed.

"Nah," he said. "If I'd wanted to run away, I would have just told you, and you would have driven me out here, and dropped me off with Karl and Tara."

"This is true," said Holden. "And I did offer-- that day."

"I remember." Bran smiled, again, not quite looking at Holden. "You were-- you meant it, too. Even if you weren't really-- ready."

"I should have been ready," said Holden, and Bran shook his head.

"No recriminations today," he said. "It's the solstice. The longest sun of the year. It's not the time for regrets. In fact--"

He reached back into the picnic basket, pulled out a box of kitchen matches, struck one, and tossed it into the ready-laid fire. It crackled rapidly into life; the kindling had been well prepared, and the logs caught and burned steadily once the quicker-burning brush and twigs had burned themselves out.

Bran reached for the canvas bag, opened it, and took out a manila folder, which he offered to Holden. It had BRAN printed on the tab in block letters.

"Did you read it?" Holden asked, once he'd caught his breath.

Bran shook his head, and said, "Read it to me."

Holden opened the file with hands that shook a little despite himself.

"Bran," he read, in a voice that wasn't entirely steady, either. "Age, eighteen. Height, five eleven. Weight, one twenty."

Bran smiled. "Skinny as two umbrellas, I think you said."

"Reason for retraining," Holden read. "Runaway."

"Hey," said Bran, in a tone of pleased surprise. "Look at that. You fixed me."

Holden tried to smile. "Central difficulty: tendency to panic, completely justified by previous owners' actions."

"Did you really write that?" Bran asked, leaning to look over Holden's shoulder, and Holden pointed at the line. "Ha!"

"Panic triggers," Holden continued. "Immersion in water-- that's crossed out-- any sign of anger or suggestion of punishment, suggestion of being sold."

"Also completely justified," said Bran parenthetically.

"Intelligent and responsive to training," Holden read. "Defiant or insolent-- and here I wrote 'never,' and then next to that I wrote, 'glares when accused of lying.'"

Bran grinned.

"Sexually responsive, highly," Holden read on, and Bran laughed. "Sexually aggressive, not at all-- note occasional tendency to offer sex as appeasement tactic."

"I'm sexually aggressive now," said Bran helpfully.

"On occasion." Holden looked back down at the file. "Does not respond well to threats. Freezes, is obviously unable to think clearly when frightened. Gets very nervous when asked to make decisions."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Bran asked. "Slaves aren't really supposed to make a lot of decisions."

"It's not necessarily good or bad," said Holden. "Just notes. 'Intensely craves physical affection, calms immediately and visibly when caressed or held; responds to any kind of affectionate physical contact, eg sex, oral sex, foreplay, kissing, cuddling, co-sleeping, fingers in his hair.'"

"Now you're talking." Bran curled up on the ground with his head on Holden's thigh, and Holden put a hand on his head, toying with his crisp, honey-brown curls. "Go on."

"Physical pain tolerance: high," Holden read. "Looked almost amused when I first suggested it-- no sign of fear or resentment. Linked to trust-- can take a lot of pain without it automatically triggering panic response. Because he knows he's safe?"

"Yeah," said Bran, his eyes closed now. "That."

"Sometimes cries when in physical pain, but response seems cathartic, not desperate or frightened." Holden twined a curl around his finger. "No sulking or apparent resentment after a beating. Unknown how he would respond to pain as punishment-- haven't punished him yet for anything. The mere suggestion seems to frighten him into abject submission."

Bran didn't say anything.

"Very quiet when he's scared or upset," Holden read. "Naturally quiet, too, so needs plenty of attention to keep him from locking up."

"I'm not naturally quiet," said Bran, his eyes still closed.

"I was wrong about a lot of things," said Holden. "Ideal owner: physically affectionate and highly emotionally attentive. Gentle, trustworthy, stable household; no mind games, weird relatives, or boisterous friends. Someone who can make him laugh."

He looked down at Bran's peaceful face. "Then there's a list of names."

"Andrei Taganov is at the top," Bran guessed without opening his eyes.

"He is," said Holden. "Can I burn this now?"

Bran opened his eyes, sat up, stretched lazily, looked at Holden, and said, "Yeah."

Holden tossed it onto the fire, where it blazed up at once; Bran and Holden watched the edges, then the center, curl and blacken and crumble into gray ash, edged with red.

"Now this," said Bran, and took a manila envelope out of the bag, also with BRAN printed on it in the same black block letters. Holden recognized it, and looked up at Bran, puzzled.

"It's empty," said Bran. "I put the cash in the household kitty, and I put my bank book in my nightstand drawer, and I put my manumission paper with yours. I know where they all are, and I don't need an emergency leaving-you kit, so--" He tossed the empty envelope on the flames, and it, too, went up in a shower of sparks. "I'm not going anywhere."

Holden reached out for Bran's hand, and Bran grasped it and squeezed it, smiling at him.

"I'm not done," he said, and reached into the canvas bag again, bringing out a regular-sized envelope. "This came the other day. I didn't tell you-- you were busy with Yves. From my grandfather."

"What?"

"I haven't read it yet," said Bran. "I'm going to read it now, and then if we want to burn it, we can, and if not--" Bran shrugged. "We won't."

"I like that plan," said Holden. "Go ahead and open it."

Bran slid his thumb under the flap of the envelope and tore it open, pulling out the single folded sheet inside, black with cramped, unaccustomed handwriting.

"Dear Grandson," he read out loud. "Well being that I was not welcomed to your house I take my pen to write. It was not right the way I was treated at your house with the man and the woman that keep you saying such things to your grandfather. You are a grown man now and you had ought to speak to your grandfather like a man and not to hide like a child with a man older to be your father and saying such things as threatening to hit an old man, which is not right.

"But let that be, as I write to you and trust you will be allowed to receive a letter for your own as you are a grown man without any one snatching away and hiding from you. I want you to know it is not right what happened to me, with my Helen being married to a poor farmer and having a child and being gone from me. Helen you know was a good girl, I know you must of loved your mother and your father too, well it is right you loved Helen and maybe it is right you loved your father, I did not know him as you said being that Helen went against me to marry him which a man has a right to anger. But a boy should love his kin and it is not right to be a bitterness between us, you had not ought to live with strangers that keep you from your kin. If you would come back to be under my roof I would see right done between us, whatever wrong was done is a sorrow and ought be made right.

"Well I hope you will consider what I say Bran, you know blood is thicker than water and I hope you will think on this.

"Signed, your affectionate grandfather."

Holden didn't say anything; he was afraid of what he might blurt out. Bran was silent too, holding the letter thoughtfully in one hand, staring past it at the flames of the bonfire.

Finally he said, "It's so close, to being an apology. 'Whatever wrong was done is a sorrow and ought be made right'-- it's like he just can't bring himself to put the 'I' in there. 'I'm sorry for whatever I did wrong.' 'I want to make it right.'"

"You think that's what he means?" Holden asked, keeping his voice carefully under control. "You sure he doesn't want you to make it up to him? For-- what did he say-- what happened to him? 'It wasn't right what happened to me,' is that what it said?"

Bran nodded.

"No 'it wasn't right what happened to you,'" said Holden, "'you know, when I sold you into slavery at fifteen against the express wishes of your dead mother whom I claim to have loved.'"

Bran glanced up, his eyes bright, and looked thoughtfully at Holden.

"I thought I'd know, once I read it, whether I wanted to burn it or not," he said. "But-- I still don't know. I don't know what to make of it. I don't-- understand him. Oh, Holden." He looked back down at the letter, but Holden didn't think he was really seeing it. "I want to understand him. I want to forgive him. I want-- to see right done between us."

"I know," said Holden, and swallowed. "You-- I couldn't. If my father wrote me, if he's still alive, I'd burn it without reading it. But not you."

"Not me," Bran agreed, and held up the envelope. "I think-- I'm going to answer."

"Well, it's up to you," said Holden, adding with an attempt at lightness, "As you are a grown man."

"I am, aren't I?" Bran looked back down at the letter. "Even if I do hide like a child with a man older to be my father."

Something sharp and heavy seemed to settle at the pit of Holden's stomach; he couldn't speak, couldn't argue. He was old enough to be Bran's father, of course, and he couldn't pretend it didn't matter; he'd said those exact words to Bran once, words Bran with his perfect memory couldn't have forgotten. I'm your master and I'm old enough to be your father... you only think you love me. He'd held on to that for so long, waiting for Bran to turn from him, towards the world; to understand that he didn't need the safe haven of Holden's arms, to face the rest of his life.

"Hey," said Bran, and tossed the letter on the fire with a quick, almost offhanded gesture as he turned to Holden, still holding the envelope in his hand. "Holden. I'm not a child. And I'm not a slave. I'm not hiding."

Holden kept his eyes on Bran's steady gray ones, even though he wanted to turn to the fire, to see the letter crumbling to ash. "No."

"Not from anything," said Bran, and held up the envelope. "So I'll write him back. So he knows I got the letter, so he knows I open my own mail. And if he wants to write again, he can." He shrugged and smiled, suddenly, at Holden, his dazzling smile, startling in its beauty no matter how often Holden saw it. "And if we need to build another bonfire--"

"There's always the equinox," said Holden, and Bran moved closer to him, slipping an arm around him, leaning his head on Holden's shoulder.

"Yes," he said, peacefully. "There always is."

They sat in silence for a while, until the fire burned down to barely glowing embers, and then Bran said, "Hey-- we should be getting back."

"We should?" Holden asked. "What for? I thought I was yours for the day. I had a note and everything."

Bran smiled at him. "You'll see."

He poured out the remains of their tea onto the fire, extinguishing it, and started re-packing the picnic basket. Holden helped, and let Bran carry the empty basket back towards the car.

"You want to drive, on the way back?" Bran asked, offering Holden the car keys. Holden tried not to snatch them too eagerly, but Bran laughed at him anyway as he climbed into the driver's seat and Bran said, imperially as a nobleman, "Home."

When they pulled up outside the house, Bran kept squinting out the window as if looking for something, but Holden didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Then, as he cut the engine and opened his door, the front door opened, and--

"Jer!" Bran yelled, elated but obviously not surprised, the devious little punk, as Jer came down the stairs, grinning, gorgeous in his burnt-sienna tunic and high brown boots, and stepped into Holden's bone-crushingly tight embrace.

"Hey," he said in Holden's ear. "Thought I'd stop by. Solstice and all."

Holden pulled back enough to kiss him, hard, on the mouth, and Jer laughed and kissed him back.

"Missed you too," he said. "Bran started writing two months ago, begging me to come home for the solstice-- said I'd be his gift to you. Cute, yeah?" He let go of Holden and stepped past him to hug Bran, then kiss him on the mouth.

"How long can you stay?" Holden asked, and Jer smiled, turning back to him.

"Awhile," he said. "Yves wants me to stick around until he goes back to school, but I don't know about that. Wouldn't mind being home for a while though. Gods, I miss this madhouse."

"We miss you too!" said Bran happily, and was about to say something else when Holden grabbed him and hugged him so hard he squeaked and struggled, laughing breathlessly till Holden kissed him more breathless still.

"Will you two lunatics stop making a spectacle of yourselves?" said Jer. "Or at least come inside, where everyone else is crazy too?"

"We can do that," said Bran, still gasping for breath. "Come on, Holden. We're home."