Bran 6/15, new and (possibly) improved

[maculategiraffe]

Some of you have seen this already, but I think it's time to make it official, as a recent reader's response to the first version of the scene (hi, kaydyy!) reminded me that it doesn't seem to have conveyed precisely what I wanted it to convey.

So: this is the rewritten version of the chapter. I'm linking it on the index instead of the old one. The changes start about halfway down. (I also made some minor edits to this chapter, for continuity. If anyone spots any other discontinuity, please let me know?)


Previous chapter





The next time Bran woke, it was light out, and Yves was shaking his shoulder.

"Rise and shine, you lazy little punk," he said cheerfully. Bran sat up, startled, and examined Yves. He looked tired, and there was a pale bruise on his face, but he smiled at Bran.

"Come on," he said. "Time for breakfast."

"I'm coming," said Bran, getting out of bed. "Are you, um, okay?"

"Yeah, just sore as fuck," said Yves. "I got worked over last night. You can thank me later, when you see what a good mood the master's in this morning."

"What did he do to you?" Bran asked, horrified.

"Mostly just a good solid flogging. And this." Yves touched the bruise.

"But you hadn't done anything wrong!"

"Nobody said I had. Sometimes the master just needs to get his tensions out."

"But he's never hit me," said Bran, bewildered but insistent. "Not once. Not even with his hand."

"After just two weeks away from Dunaev? I should think not." Yves patted Bran on the back and handed him his clothes. "Pain's a funny thing, Bran. Like a catalyst. You know what a catalyst is?"

"No," said Bran, pulling his clothes on with unnecessary violence.

"Yeah, Dunaev probably wasn't much on spare time and access to a library. A catalyst is something that-- you could say it helps something else happen. Dunaev probably used it as a catalyst for your being scared out of your wits, since it seems like that was your ideal state as far as he was concerned. But it can catalyze other things. It can be... cathartic."

"Sorry," said Bran shortly. "Another big word I'm too dumb for."

"You're not dumb," said Yves automatically, then peered at Bran. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," said Bran. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

"Fine," said Yves after a moment, still looking at Bran curiously. Bran looked away.



"Bran," said his master after breakfast, "you're glaring at me."

Kneeling at his master's feet, Bran lowered his eyes to the floor. "I beg your pardon, master."

"That's all right," said Holden, sounding amused. "It didn't hurt. But what's going on? I've never seen you look so-- resentful."

They were in the same room where Bran's master had taken him after breakfast nearly every day since his arrival. They called it the training room, Bran had learned. He had gradually lost his nervousness at being surrounded by so many ominous structures and implements, since his master never used any of them to hurt. Bran wondered if this was where his master had brought Yves last night.

"Bran?"

Bran kept his eyes stubbornly on the floor. "Forgive me for contradicting you, master, but I'm not resentful."

"In my entire career you are truly the worst liar I've seen," said Holden amiably. "Most slaves are professional liars by the time they're your age. You must have a hell of a natural ineptitude. Come on, Bran, talk to me. Did Yves say something to upset you this morning?"

"No, master."

"What did he say?"

"I said no, master."

"You're lying."

Bran said nothing.

"Bran, are you trying to get me to punish you?"

"No, master," said Bran, his heart constricting sharply.

"I've never punished you yet," said Holden thoughtfully. "I haven't needed to. You're a good kid. But if you're going to get belligerent on me, maybe it's time."

"Please, master," Bran said desperately, looking up into his master's face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to displease you. Please forgive me. I beg you."

"Hey," said Holden with unexpected pleasure, leaning down to caress Bran's hair. Bran swallowed and tried to focus on the touch. "Look at you. You're looking at me, you're talking to me, you're afraid of me. Me, not Dunaev. This is real progress, kiddo. I'm proud of you." His fist tightened in Bran's hair. "Now stop fucking lying to me."

"I'm not lying, master," Bran whispered. "I swear."

His master stared into his face for what seemed like hours before he dropped Bran's hair and sat back, still examining Bran thoughtfully.

"Stay here," he said finally, stood up and left the room.

Bran knelt, breathing deeply, wanting to run.

No, for fuck's sake, he didn't want to run. Running was stupid. He'd get nowhere, and he'd be back at square one-- if not worse-- when it came to pleasing his master. No, definitely worse. Because he should know better by now. He did know better.

He still wanted to run, wanted it so badly that it was a strain to stay still. But he wasn't going to. He was going to kneel here and wait for his master to come back and do whatever he was going to do.

Bran didn't even know why he was so scared. It wasn't like he hadn't been through worse. He'd survived two masters whose idea of a good time he didn't like to remember, weathered their pleasures and their rages for three years, and now that he'd gone two weeks without so much as a slap, here he was cringing like a fifteen-year-old at the prospect of being punished again. Holden wasn't a brutal man; if he did punish Bran it wouldn't kill him.

Maybe it was because he didn't even know what the punishment would be for, exactly. Not that that was new, either. But it was new from Holden. Bran had been confused by his new master before, but explanations had always been forthcoming. Now Holden was acting as if Bran already knew something-- and he definitely didn't. He wasn't resentful. And he hadn't been glaring. And Yves hadn't said anything to upset him. Not really.

Bran sighed and shifted his weight restlessly. Okay, maybe now I'm a little resentful.

"Just get it over with," he whispered under his breath, but nothing happened. It occurred to him that Holden had probably gone to ask Yves about their conversation this morning. Bran laid his head on the bench where his master had been sitting and thought about Yves' bruise, trying to imagine Holden inflicting it, Yves' head snapping back with the force of the blow-- not too hard, the mark wasn't that dark, not a real punch, just a smack, across the face. Yves' expression, turning his head back to his master. Like his expression this morning. So fucking-- okay. Not scared, not angry, just...

Do you need me?

Yes.

Smiling.

Smug.

"Oh come on," Bran said aloud to himself.

Was he jealous of Yves? That was ridiculous. Bran knew what a flogging felt like, and he wasn't likely to volunteer for the receiving end of one, no matter what Yves said about cat- whatever. If that was how Yves got off, he was welcome to it. Bran was just lucky someone else was around for when his master needed--

--me?

Yes.

Bran sat back and drew up his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around them and closing his eyes.

He was jealous. Not of the pain, but of the need. Holden didn't need Bran. Enjoyed him, sure-- Bran knew that. Even liked him. But he wouldn't hesitate to sell Bran when the time came; he'd made that clear.

Well, what was so awful about that? He'd sell him to someone nice, a good fit, and Bran would figure out how to be good enough to make his new master look at him the way Holden looked at Yves, and everyone would live happily ever after. No problem. No reason to start crying. No reason, for fuck's sake, Bran, at all.

But he was still crying when Holden came back in, silently sat down on the floor beside him and put an arm around him, and he cried for a while longer after that, with his master's arm warm and solid around his shoulders, and when he was finished crying, Holden leaned over and kissed his cheek softly.

"I know it's hard," he said. "Making the transition. I know how hard it is, Bran."

How the hell would you know? Bran thought bitterly, but he said nothing, only leaned his head on his master's shoulder, and was held. They sat in silence for a while longer. It was strange to be held when he was tired out from crying, strange and good and warm. Bran wondered vaguely if he were still going to be punished. Finally his master stirred.

"Your mistress and I are going out to dinner tonight," he said, "to the home of the lady who owns Greta's brother."

"Greta has a brother?" Bran asked thickly, and cleared his throat.

"A twin, in fact. Though they're not very alike. But they're fairly close, and Irina and Alix like to give them a chance to visit. So it will just be you and Yves left here tonight. Might be a good opportunity for you two to talk about... anything you have to talk about."

"Yes, master," said Bran, feeling annoyance flare again for a moment at the mention of Yves. Gods, he had to get that under control, and fast. Never mind all this emotional stuff; the plain fact was that making Yves an enemy could get him killed. "I'll talk to him."



But when it was just Yves and Bran in the house, Bran, finding his imagination strangely possessed by Yves' bruise, and by the occasional slight wince when he moved, could think of nothing to say to him, before or during the meal they ate in wary silence in the kitchen, and after eating, went upstairs to avoid him. He lay down on his bed, wondering if Yves' back was striped under the tunic or an even sunburn red, imagining what had gone on last night between them after the door had closed on Bran, while Greta probably cried a little in Alix's arms. Yves would have cried out (or not?) and been strapped down (or not?) and he'd probably gotten fucked; masters liked to fuck a well-heated ass in Bran's experience. Had Holden kissed Yves' lips, his marks, had Yves smiled as he cried out under the leather, his master's cock opening him, hands digging into his welts, the pain catalyzing-- what?

"Bran?" Yves called from downstairs.

Startled, Bran realized with some surprise that his cock was hard. He blushed, though there was no one to see, and smoothed his tunic self-consciously over his knees before getting up and going to the head of the stairs.

"Come down here and sit with me," said Yves. "I made coffee."

"Slaves can't have coffee," said Bran, unable to control the irritation in his voice. Was Yves so adored by his master that he'd completely forgotten the rules by which other slaves lived? "It stains your teeth and-- does something to your circulatory system."

"I got permission. For both of us. Come on, Bran. Don't be angry with me."

It was nice of him not to say "Don't make an ass of yourself" in so many words, Bran thought, and came a little sheepishly down the stairs. Yves smiled kindly at him. Bran saw himself suddenly through Yves' eyes: an attractive but sullen child, with a childish crush on the man who'd rescued him from danger of death, and an equally childish resentment of Yves for being the one their master loved. He smiled back at Yves, his jaw hurting.

Bran's first cup of coffee was bitter but comfortingly warm, his second strangely enjoyable in its pungence. He didn't notice the effects of the caffeine until the sound of the front door opening nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Mom?" called a girl's voice.

"Oh, great," said Yves under his breath.

A moment later the voice's owner, a tall dark-haired girl of about Bran's own age, hurried into the kitchen and stopped short. "Oh. Hi, Yves. Hi-- I don't know you."

"This is Bran," said Yves, rising. "What are you doing home, Miss Valor? I thought the term wasn't over for another two weeks."

"It isn't," she said, and came plunging across the room with a long-legged, faintly awkward gait to fling her arms around Yves and kiss him passionately on the lips. He winced slightly, kissing her back without surprise.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, pulling back and furrowing her brow at Yves' bruised face. She was tall, angular, and dressed in a plain traveling suit. Bran thought he could detect a resemblance to Greta in the green eyes and high cheekbones, but this girl was thinner and harder-looking, with a pronounced nose and rather severe eyebrows, and her skin was sallow, not creamy and freckled like Greta's. The dark hair must have been Holden's contribution, though otherwise Bran saw little resemblance. "Are you hurt? Did my dad beat you?"

"Yes, Miss Valor," said Yves in a voice unmistakably tinged with irritation. Bran bit his lip involuntarily as Valor frowned, not sure what would happen if the young mistress took umbrage at Yves' tone, but she only said, "Let me see."

Yves turned around, and Valor took hold of his tunic, pushing it up to display a welted back. Bran swallowed hard. Valor sighed.

"Poor Yves," she said, reaching out to touch the angry stripes with one careful finger. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, Miss Valor," said Yves again, looking marginally less annoyed, as she let his tunic fall and turned him around. "Thank you."

"He wasn't mad at you, was he?" Valor asked, worried, and Yves smiled a little.

"Your letter came last night," he said, and Valor's eyes widened before she dropped dramatically backwards into a fortunately located kitchen chair and buried her face in her arms.

"God damn the post office," she said, muffled. "I thought for sure I'd get here first." She lifted her head, looking worriedly up at Yves. "I'm sorry, Yves-- I wasn't doing well that night, I regretted it as soon as I mailed it-- do you hate me?"

"It's hardly the first beating I've gotten on your account," said Yves dryly, but when Valor covered her face again, he stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm fine, Miss Valor."

"How fine?" she asked, looking up again winsomely. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks, enhancing her resemblance to Greta. "Because I haven't had sex since I wrote that letter."

Yves shook his head at her. "You'll have to ask your father, you know that."

She flung one arm out and wrapped it around his waist, pulling him closer and burying her face against his stomach instead, and he smiled again, bringing a hand up to stroke her dark hair and looking down at her with fond exasperation.

"Where are my mom and dad?" she asked, her forehead still pressed to Yves' belly.

"Out to dinner with Lady Galenova and your uncle," said Yves. "May I get you something to eat?"

"I'm fine. I ate on the train. When will they be home?"

"I'm not sure," said Yves, "but it shouldn't be too long now. Bran and I were just having coffee." He didn't explicitly offer Valor a cup, which was something of a relief to Bran; considering the effect the caffeine was having on his own nerves, he didn't think he'd like to see what it would do to Valor.

"Oh, yeah," said Valor, lifting her head and looking at Bran for the first time with a frankly appraising gaze. "Hi, Bran. Gosh, he's adorable. Is he a delinquent?"

"Yes," said Yves. "And no, you may not have sex with him, at least not without your father's permission."

"I know that," said Valor indignantly. "But I bet Dad's thrilled. You are so his type," she told Bran, who blushed so hotly he thought his face might combust, not daring to look at Yves. "Any girls in the house right now?"

"No, Miss Valor," said Yves rather flatly.

"I'm inundated with stupid snob girls at school. Lisa's the only sensible one in the lot. Well, Gordon's sister has been really decent to me. But then, I thought Gordon was really decent too, until lately. So what did you do? Brian?"

Bran cleared his throat, not quite daring to correct her on the point of his name. "Miss?"

"Why are you a delinquent?" she clarified.

Bran looked down. "I tried to run away, Miss. Twice-- three times."

Valor tsked. "And how's the retraining going?"

Before Bran could answer, they heard the front door open, and Valor leaped up as if a starting pistol had been fired and galloped from the kitchen. Rolling his eyes a little, Yves followed, and after a moment, so did Bran, hanging back just far enough to watch Holden, Alix, and Greta staring at Valor in surprise and a little alarm-- not that he blamed them.

"What are you doing here?" Holden demanded as Valor hugged her mother so hard she nearly lifted the shorter woman off the floor. "Don't tell me you've run off from school over that Marmeladov whelp. I won't have you ruining your future for calf love, young lady."

"Nice to see you, too, Dad," said Valor, and released Greta only to grab her by the shoulders. "Mom, listen, I'm sorry about that letter, I was upset, I didn't mean all that stuff I said. Gordon's a jerk, that's all. If he can't accept that I've got the best mom in the world, then fuck him!"

"Val," said Greta, pink but smiling. "Language."

Valor giggled, the dimples in her cheeks mirroring her mother's. "Sorry. Um. Nuts to him. How's Uncle Kai? Hi, Alix!"

"Hello, darling," said Alix with perfect equanimity.

"So you came home to tell us you didn't mean what you wrote in your letter?" Holden asked suspiciously. "Why didn't you just write again?"

"I was hoping to get here before it did so I could destroy it before you ever saw it," said Valor frankly. "You shouldn't have hurt Yves, Dad. I hate it when you do that because of me."

"Then you should think before you mail things," said Holden, looking up at Yves, who came forward and stepped unselfconsciously into the crook of his master's arm. Holden drew him closer, his arm resting lightly against Yves' back, and touched his lips to the bruise on Yves' cheek before kissing him softly on the mouth; Yves leaned into him, kissing back, in a moment that felt too intimate for Bran to have witnessed.

"Aw, aren't they sweet?" said Valor as the kiss ended. "Anyway, that's not the only reason I came home. Classes were over yesterday and exams aren't for another week and the ruckus in the dormitories you would not believe. I wanted a quiet place to study." She kicked a suitcase that had been dropped to the floor just inside the door; it didn't budge. "See? I brought home a million books. Plus--" She looked up at her father with an ingratiating, dimpled grin. "I thought it might speed the grieving process over Gordon if I could spend some time with Yves. He's a much better lover, anyway."

"I hate to break this to you, daughter," said Holden, still clasping Yves close, "but Yves is a better lover than anyone you will ever manage to have sex with without my explicit permission. You'll probably never marry; we spoiled you. Set your standards too high."

"Well," said Valor brightly, "you could give Yves to me for my graduation present like I asked."

Startled, Bran's eyes flicked to Yves' face, but he had turned it against his master's neck and Bran couldn't read the expression as Holden said amiably, "When pigs fly, young lady. Yves is mine-- and you haven't demonstrated that you're responsible enough to own any slave yet."

"Half the kids at school already--" Valor began indignantly.

"Half the kids at school aren't you," Alix interrupted calmly, "and their parents have different ideas about what constitutes responsible slave-owning."

Valor sent a quick, odd glance at Greta, and said, though grumpily, "Fine. Can I at least have Yves for tonight?"

Holden turned Yves' face towards his own with an inquiring look. The smile Yves gave him must have been satisfactory; he kissed Yves again, quickly, and let his arm fall from around the younger man.

"All right," he said to Valor. "But be gentle."

"I know, I know," said Valor, grabbing Yves' hand without any particular gentleness and hustling him up the stairs behind her.



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