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Life Through the Same Lens	By : psychocatblah Category: A through F > Dark is Rising Views: 1827 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dark is Rising, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Life Through the Same Lens
- 1
The ice crunched when Bran shifted. His arm was long and pale, spotted with livid purple marks from where he'd been injecting. Finally, he'd found a vein and the sweet, sweet flow of sensation was taking him to another place.
He'd been living in London since his father died. In London, they didn't think that you might be fey, they assumed you were punk or Goth or emo or whatever they wanted to call it.
Some wanted to know where you went to school, who your parents were.
"Sheep farmers?" a chav selling coffee screeched. "Nuffin' ta do wit' dem bouts here. Better ta rent yaself ou!"
At the time, Bran had no idea what a rentboy was, but he cottoned on rather quickly. Men buggered him, or he let them suck his cock, and he got money. Getting money that way was something many--especially Christian-raised farmers from Wales-- believed was degrading and immoral. To deal with his shame and the other, pettier emotions, Bran turned to heroin.
He hadn't thought much of it at first. It gave him a break from the world that he wasn't sure had need of him anymore.
Bran thought he might fall asleep here in this alleyway. It was dirty with dumped-over bins scattering Christmas paper and shit in rather equal amounts over the walkway, but there were scarier places to be. Here he had the paper for warmth and the fact that it was mostly empty.
Mostly.
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.
Someone was singing down the street. The voice sounded alone, so it couldn't be one of those annoying choirs. It sounded like a familiar voice, a boyish voice that turned to man without someone getting the message between On top of it, it sounded familiar.
That had to be a hallucination.
Still the music and the man crept closer. His grey eyes were unfocused as if he were somewhere else, hearing a choir that Bran could not hear.
A name bubbled up to the surface of Bran's brain, but the man spoke before he caught it.
"What has the world done to you, my Bran?" the man said softly.
He tossed the needle from Bran's arm and untied the tourniquet.
Now the man Bran thought he knew was on his knees just in front of him. Bran tilted his head. "You said my name right."
It hadn't even occurred to Bran that he hadn't given his name. Bran looked into the man's eyes, blinking slowly. If the man thought the utterance odd, he didn't say. Instead, he just continued speaking.
"I was never going to let them hurt you again. I let you down."
"You didn't let me down," said Bran. He felt like he was in a dream. Thoughts of dark hair, grey eyes; a dog he hadn't thought of in years, running off into the sun, shaggy tail catching the breeze. "Eyes that see the wind."
The man smiled at him. "Cafall."
"He's dead," said Bran glumly, his stomach lurching at the thought.
"I know, Bran. I know," said the man tenderly. His fingers were so soft under Bran's chin and Bran looked up into the serene round face. "I'm taking you home with me."
"All right," said Bran, pushing up off of the frozen ground with rough, bare palms. "But if you want me for the whole night, it'll be extra."
His face pained, the man nodded and reached out for Bran's hand.
Bran looked at the open hand and folded his arms and said, "Lead the way."
The man frowned, brows furrowing. He looked like he was going to apologize again, but then seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth. He stared at Bran for a long, unsettling moment. Cold fingers of memory prickled the back of Bran's skull. He remembered a queer boy who would stare at him. The only boy he'd ever felt truly comfortable around. A boy that never thought he was a changeling or seemed to find anything strange about him at all. With that boy, he'd felt special, not ashamed.
It depressed him that he couldn't remember the boy's name, and he felt embarrassed by it and looked down at his feet.
Bran let the man take his arm and lead him to the street and into a warm black cab.
--
It must've been Christmas.
Bran had had no idea.
He sat uncomfortably on the plush couch in the cozy flat, jonesing and fidgety. A brightly-lit tree warmed the corner of the small living area with gaily wrapped presents sitting beneath, all tagged with names that were so common as to be familiar. Jane. Simon. Max.
Bran's skull tingled again and his sight went fuzzy, but he caught himself and turned in time to take the large mug of cocoa from the young man he'd come home with. The man looked tired and sad and Bran couldn't help feeling like he'd disappointed him somehow, but he hadn't been asked to do anything yet.
Bringing the cup to his mouth, Bran noticed his hand was shaking; the man noticed it too and reached out to steady Bran's hand. His skin was warm and soft and he smelled so familiar. Bran remembered his father, remembered how stern he could be, bordering on cruel and how shocked he'd looked when his heart exploded inside of his chest.
He'd breathed, gasped, tried to hold onto life. Bran had called for help; he'd done everything he could think to do to save him, but to no avail. The others in the little town had called it witchcraft, that Owen Davies had no call to die of a heart attack. He was a healthy, god-fearing man.
Bran was a curse.
"You don't remember me, do you?" asked the man, his voice tender.
Bran blinked, suddenly realizing how wet his eyes had grown. "I'm sorry. I've just… done this a lot. A man forgets…"
"It's Will, Bran. Will Stanton."
"What?" Bran tried to move away from the cocoa, tried to scoot away from the man. If he really was Will, then Bran couldn't stand to have him see him this way.
And he knew that it really was Will.
The voice.
The hair.
The smell.
The feeling.
Bran shivered violently and knocked the cup away from him, hearing it splash over the carved oak coffee table.
"Bran! Bran, stop!"
He shoved Will away, launching him into the tree as he scrambled up, only to slip on the spilled cocoa that had splattered onto the hardwood floor.
Everything went in slow motion, the way things do when you're falling. He scrambled for something to grab, some means to keep himself upright, but he was lost and collapsed between the table and the couch. Bran's head hit the floor with a sick, dead thud and the world dimmed until it was black.
--
Bran woke to a warm quality of light that was either daybreak or the golden moments before the blue hour. The ceiling was decorated with dark and light slats from the shades and for the first time in as long as Bran could remember, he smelled good. The scent of a fry up came wafting in from the other room, but as Bran tried to sit up, he found his body leaden, rigid.
For a second, he feared he might've been paralyzed somehow in the fall, and yet… he could wiggle his fingers and his toes. He simply couldn't get up. Some invisible force kept him prone on the bed.
That was when he started to sweat.
It started as a cold trickle down his back, rolling down his spine, parallel to the roiling in his belly. He opened his mouth to cry out, but erupted instead in a long, loud belch. In a dark flash, Will was by Bran's side holding a bin. Bran couldn't say how or when he was able to move, only that he was sitting up when he vomited into the bin.
Will pushed his hair back, smoothing it tenderly and caressing his face.
It was soothing, but Bran's stomach wasn't done with them. He puked until he was left heaving. He knew what he needed, what would make him feel safe and normal and sane, but he couldn't ask Will go score for him. He reached down to his pocket to see if he even had cash to only to find that he was not wearing trousers. Or pants. Or anything.
Bran sat bolt upright, yet another mistake in a series of them and he quickly crumpled forward to rest his forehead on the lip of the bin, heaving again.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Bran whimpered between convulsions.
Will moved closer to Bran on the bed, wrapping warm, strong arms around his frail body. "I'm the one who's sorry. I should've come back. I should've known. Just… mum and… and then Stephen…"
"What happened to Stephen?" Bran asked. As the drugs were punishing his system, it seemed like memories were coming back. Will didn't return to Wales when his mum was diagnosed with cancer. After a few years, he was no longer expected.
These things happened.
He remembered the taunts; boys and girls alike asking him why his boyfriend wasn't coming to see him. His father asked him about the nature of his relationship with Will and even called it unnaturally close. Bran denied it. He had no idea why anyone would think that.
Now he wondered what his father would say about him sucking cock to get high.
"The Navy… there was an accident at sea," said Will. His voice was thick and Bran slipped his arms around him. Holding onto Will like this made him feel steady, less dizzy. He made the world stop spinning.
Bran buried his neck against Will's neck, hating how sticky his mouth was and how bad he must smell now. He couldn't remember anyone ever holding him like this. Owen certainly hadn't. No one in the town trusted him enough to want to get this close to him.
"What do you boys get up to?" Owen had asked.
"We just…." Bran had been at a loss to explain t heir game, the light and dark forces, the magic that he knew Owen would call witchcraft. Owen was never a cruel man, but he was both strict and devout. "We just hiked and rode bikes," he said, defeated.
Owen didn't look like he quite believed it, but he accepted it for an answer. "When he comes next, maybe you shouldn't… ride bikes alone so much."
Bran hadn't known what he would say to Will about that when he came the next summer. When Will hadn't shown up, it was a disappointment and a relief.
Will was moving again and Bran realized he must've dozed off into his reverie.
"At sea?" asked Bran.
It was dark now. Will wore a wry grin on his face as he switched on a light. "I told you that a couple of hours ago," he said as he pressed Bran back to lie on the bed.
"Guess I was tired," said Bran. He tried to sit up, but felt that same strange force keeping him down. He reached for Will's arm.
"Guess so," said Will. He looked down at Bran's pale arm.
Noticing that Will was looking at the dark spots on his inner arm, Bran reached for a sleeve that wasn't there and then huffed in irritation that his track marks were out there for him to see.
Will sat on the bed again and traced his fingertips over the marks. "You're not going to do this again."
Bran had told himself that a thousand times before, but Will said it with such conviction, Bran believed it.
Suddenly Bran was filled with the urge to kiss him. With a junkie's swiftness, thought became action and he'd curled his fingers around Will's elbow to yank him forward.
He'd kissed people before. He'd kissed body parts—just about any that a mouth could go on. But never in his life had he really wanted to. Not like he wanted this. A kiss for its own sake. A kiss because he cared, because he wanted to taste him, to feel Will's warmth, to touch whatever it was inside of him that made him feel like they could see life through the same lens.
Only after a few seconds did it occur to Bran what an utter horror his mouth must be and he yanked himself back, blushing furiously and muttering apologies.
Will's head was still tilted to the side, lips still parted and eyelashes fluttering on his soft pale cheeks.
"Sorry… I must… taste a fright," said Bran, if only to break the silence.
Opening his eyes, Will looked at Bran for a moment, then blushed and cleared his throat. "Well. Um. I should… let me get you some tea," he said, standing stiffly. Will bloused his jumper over his trousers and Bran grinned cheekily at him.
"If you need to make a stop at the loo, I could help you with that. I am a professional, you know."
If it was at all possible, Will blushed more. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and turned on his toe towards the kitchen.
--
Bran didn't even know how many days it had been since he'd come home with Will. The vomiting was over, but the insomnia had started, and the shakes. When it all got too severe, and Bran started looking for ways to leave the flat, Will would stretch out his hand, crooking his fingers in a peculiar way. He'd speak, calling it some sort of prayer
Bran didn't have time for prayer or religion. It had never brought him comfort in particular. He didn't expect it to now.
However, he felt better after those prayers-- good and whole. At least for a little while. Sometimes those prayers would let him sleep and other times they settled his stomach enough that he could eat.
He'd heard of an NHS service where they'd begun weaning addicts off of heroin with methadone or mild injections of diamorphine, but it seemed as if these prayers were getting the job done. Bran asked what religion it was, but Will was cagey about the answer, saying you had to be born into it.
Bran found it quite amusing that his old mate Will belonged to some secret brotherhood and that was part of why Will was so odd.
The oddness was comforting to Bran. The way that Will looked at him was fierce and thrilling and it aroused Bran.
As Will brought him tea, Bran wondered what it would be like to suck his cock. Would he moan? Would his eyes roll back in his head? Would he grab Bran's hair and pull him in or would he be polite and let Bran dictate the speed and the depth? When he leaned in to tuck Bran into bed, Bran wondered if Will would kiss him.
Again.
He made sure to have his teeth brushed whenever he knew Will would be home. Will had a job as a researcher that took him away for a few hours a day. Bran wasn't allowed to leave. He was locked in.
"You can come shopping with me if you feel up to it," Will said, after what had to have been at least a week of him living there.
Bran watched Will's lips moving, thinking about kissing him again. He couldn't remember the last time he slept. Bran couldn't even be sure he was awake now. His stomach twisted and lurched but then he felt well enough to stand up and agree to go with him.
The air was cool and brisk. Will had made sure to bundle Bran up with a warm green fleece cap and a black wool scarf. Bran was swimming in Will's winter coat while Will made do with his car coat. In spite of the gloves and boots, Bran still couldn't help but shiver as the win cut through to his frame.
Being outside made Bran edgy. In spite of the surprise of afternoon sunshine, he felt cold and exposed. They were headed to the greengrocer and the street was alive with activity. Bran couldn't help but peer in to the dark recesses between businesses, the alleyways, the boards people slept under, the vagabonds leaning against stone walls, hands out, eyes vacant.
That had been him.
Seeming to notice Bran's hesitance, Will took Bran's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. His smile crinkled up to his eyes and flashed his teeth and Bran found himself smiling back, easing into the comfortable rhythm of walking and breathing.
At the grocer's, Bran felt eyes on him the whole time, and not the warm interest of Will's gaze. He was being followed and watched. Every time he reached for a piece of fruit or a head of cabbage, he could feel the breath of the grocer on his neck. He could only imagine what a wreck he looked—wraith-like from detox and in a coat several sizes too big for him. He moved back to Will's side. Will always had a smile for him and patted his back reassuringly. He gave Bran's arm a soft tug when he was ready to move on from a section so he wouldn't just vanish while Bran lost himself in thought.
Such a small, simple action, and yet it was a kindness Bran hadn't eve really known, and tears welled up at each easy consideration.
He'd never been a very touchy-feely boy, but as they walked back to Will's flat, each with a bag of groceries in their arms, Bran had to keep at least one hand on Will, to be sure he was there, to be sure he wouldn't disappear.
Back in the flat, he helped Will put away the groceries and sat on the counter next to the stove, watching Will cook. The smell of the hearty sausages frying up had to be one of the most blissful scents he'd ever smelled. He wasn't sure if he could hold them down or not if he tried one, but the scent was making his body ache and his mouth water.
Grinning, Will cut off a cooked end and offered it to Bran from the end of his fork.
"Never one to stand on manners," said Will at Bran's questioning look.
There had been a time when the breech of etiquette would've made Bran a little nervous, but his life had changed so much since the days when he knew Will before. Most nights he would've savored a banger from the bin. This was fresh and made just for him.
He leaned in and blew on it, relishing that it was still so warm. His fingers closed around Will's and rubbed lightly over his hand. Lips parted, he pulled the sausage from the fork daintily with his teeth, exhaling to blow more of the heat off until it was cooled enough to chew.
Bran sat back, moaning a little as he chewed it. It was pork and fatty and had to be the best he'd ever tasted. He was about to comment on that when he felt the quality of sound change as Will moved closer.
Holding his breath, Bran remained still, almost too scared to swallow. Will was close enough to kiss him and he didn't want to mess this up, didn't want to lose this opportunity.
It felt like forever. Will's breath warmed his cheek and he seemed to be faltering, like he'd lost his nerve. Bran dropped the fork and slid his arms around Will's back, tilting his head to the side to brush their lips together as he swallowed his meat.
This kiss tasted of sausage and Prince of Wales tea. Will's hair was soft in his fingers, his body taut and nervous. Bran knew the pantomime of the inexperienced and treasured this all the more for it.
Bran toyed with Will's hair, taking things slowly, dragging his tongue languidly inside of Will's mouth, tasting him and testing him, wanting to feel every tooth, every moment of slick tongue and slippery lip. Sucking his bottom lip, he curled his fingers under Will's stubbled chin, wrapping his legs around him to draw him closer.
He almost expected Will to pull away, but he was sweetly compliant, pressing them together, feeling his arousal through his trousers, lining it up with his own.
He snogged him softly and sweetly and ran his hands up and down Will's back until he smelled the bangers burning in the pan. Will rested his forehead against Bran's and laughed a little as he reached over to turn off the stove.
"I think I ruined dinner," said Will, his face burning crimson.
Bran wanted to throw him to the floor and see how far the blush went down. But he would behave. For now. "I think I was the one who ruined dinner."
"You didn't ruin anything," said Will breathlessly. "But we should… um… maybe eat… and then…"
"And then?" asked Bran, glowing.
Will smiled mysteriously and blushed and nodded as he portioned out their dinner. "Yes."
The "yes" held a lot of promise, more than Bran was certain Will could provide. They left the flat for a kebab shop around the corner. Bran cheekily mouthed the meat on the stick while Will blushed and giggled, making him look terribly young, indeed.
Bran thought he could just eat him up.
He'd never given loads of thought to his sexuality. It had been a means to an end for as long as he could remember.
Now he had choices he could make, at least for the time being. It seemed silly not to offer himself to Will, and yet, he wondered if that was special enough, all things considered.
Will walked them through the streets, shyly taking his hand, twining their fingers together. It was freezing, but Bran felt aglow with the warmth of companionship.
Absently he wondered what Will might really want of him, hating himself for his suspicious mind, but then, life on the streets could be difficult at the best of times.
He was about to ask Will what he wanted from him when he felt the soft warmth of Will's lips again, shutting down his thoughts. He'd never been held so gently and just held like this. Maybe someone had tried, but he couldn't remember it.
Bran couldn't get enough of the simplest of touches, and he tilted his head against Will's hand when he caressed his cheek.
"Do you forgive me, Bran?"
"For what?"
"I should've… watched. I should've kept track of you," said Will.
"You're not in charge of my life, or my choices," said Bran. He had no idea why Will would feel so guilty for it, but it was obvious that he was bothered.
Sometimes Will looked so old, so distant. There was something about the way his eyes held the light, how his gaze seemed to read into the past and the future all at once. It made Bran feel scared and hollow, like he was missing something that he should be seeing.
There were times when Bran felt panicked, strange, like he'd left something behind. He would search his pockets, try to remember his day and hate his drug-addled mind. Yet he knew it wasn't anything so simple as that. It was like a piece of him was missing.
Whatever it was, he felt closer to it than he ever had now that he was so close to Will. He wondered if it was something with his inner child. Maybe something happened to him when Cafall died. He didn't know what it was, only that this felt right, complete and perfect.
When he looked at Will, he fancied that he saw him the same way.
"I think I'm in love with you."
Bran felt the blood drain from his face, hating himself from having said it out loud. He'd been thinking it, but the words came out, and…
"I know it probably sounds strange to hear me say that," said Will.
Bran blinked and furrowed his brows. He was so sure that he'd said it, but now all he could hear was Will's soft voice, mellow and low.
"But you're the only thing that feels right. The only thing that ever has," said Will. He caressed Bran's face as Bran stared at him in shock.
"I'm a… but… why would you want a…" asked Bran.
"A what?"
"A whore. A drug addict, a…" Bran whispered, averting his eyes.
"That's not who you are. That's what you did. You don't have to keep doing that. Do you want to keep doing it?"
Bran shook his head and looked down, frowning. Will tilted his head up and kissed him again tenderly.
"Then don't. Just… stay with me. You don't have to do anything; you don't have to give me anything. Just… just stay with me. I couldn't sleep if I knew you were out there another night. I've found you now. I mean to keep you." Will squeezed him tightly and then released him, but Bran held tight.
"What if I want to?" asked Bran.
"Want to…"
"Want to do things?" he asked, blushing. He hadn't known he could blush like this anymore. It was a relief to feel human again and not just a mechanism for drugs or a hole to fill.
Will blushed and cleared his throat. "That would be all right. But you don't… I just don't want you to feel like you owe it to me."
He did feel like he owed him something, but he could tell that this meant something to Will, so he promised and kissed him again, shivering in the cold.
"I should get you back inside," said Will. Bran nodded, but held Will's arm around him.
He didn't care how people looked at them on the street. It was better than how they'd looked at him before. If it bothered Will, he didn't show it. He kept his eyes on Bran, smiling and squeezing his waist with his fingers, pulling him close now and then.
Bran wondered if maybe he wasn't the missing piece of Will. Perhaps Will hadn't gone to the depths or the extremes that Bran did, but his face was careworn and sad. He'd been no happier than Bran had.
He had a strange feeling that they saw life the same, that they were two souls, brought together and blown apart like a dandelion, scattered to careless breezes and life's whims.
Somehow now they'd found each other again and somehow everything would be all right.
- 1
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Life Through the Same Lens