adventureic | (no subject)

WHO: Byron, Bowen, Broderick, and Bethany Best.
WHEN: After the last full moon, Sunday night.
WHERE: Broderick's farmhouse in Wales.
WHAT: Family reunion! Byron bonds with his younger brother, and everyone picks on Broderick.
WARNINGS: Obnoxious siblings, weed.

It was obvious, within seconds of Byron and Broderick arriving to his farmhouse in the Welsh countryside, that someone had gotten there first.

“He really needs to ride something more dignified, safer,” the eldest Best muttered to his younger brother as they made the short walk across the laneway from the portal to the door, as if Broderick hadn't gotten into motorcycles that one time a decade ago.

Bowen’s lemon yellow CityRover was an eyesore where it sat, no matter how many magical advancements and modifications it had to run to be as green and environmentally safe as possible.

“You lost?”

Lounging across the doorway with her arms crossed, affecting what Broderick could only assume was an impression of him (all exaggerated eyebrows and surliness) was Bethany

“Depends. Are you going to pay my mortgage?” Without even slowing his stride, Broderick ducked his shoulder and tossed his youngest sister over it, ignoring her shriek of outrage as he led he and Byron through the open door.

“Arsehole, put me – I’m not a child! Byron!”

"I can't tell him what to do—he's technically my boss now, hasn't he mentioned?" Byron teased. "Bruce has got some competition now."

Byron strode in and made himself right at home at his brother's kitchen table, ignoring the scuffle with a grin on his face.

From where he’d been calmly propagating a few of Broderick’s woeful houseplants at the table, Bowen lifted his head to nod in greeting to his brother. “Haia, Ti'n iawn?”

Bethany and Broderick only got louder as they passed by.

“--better not have been a cigarette,” Broderick leaned over as he crossed behind to press a messy, affectionate kiss to the side of Bowen’s head. He was losing his grip on Bethany, her long hair a complete curtain around her reddening face as she struggled.

“You’re such an old man. Why are you so lame,” she huffed, as if there wasn’t equal parts irritation and laughter in her voice.

“We’ll be back,” Broderick ruffled Bowen’s hair, ignoring the youngest Best entirely. Their bickering continued, even as Broderick drifted down the hall to another room.

Byron turned to his younger brother and rolled his eyes. "So. Did you miss us or do you feel like you've finally had some peace since we've been away?"

“No,” Bowen offered genially, dirt streaked fingers encouraging the pothos plant in front of him to bud and grow with a little magical assistance. Bowen was always covered in dirt to some degree, and as he brushed at an itch on his chin, another streak appeared. “Beth’s just been more annoying.”

He shared a look with Byron. “You know she’s mad at you both for being invited to your adventure club thing, when she wasn’t. And I have to hear about it.”

"Are you kidding me? You're lucky you weren't invited. It's an absolute shitshow. Dad probably knew you were both too smart to come," Byron assured him, tilting his head as he watched in awe as Bowen manipulated the plant with his powers.

Bowen didn't seem to agree with the comment, letting out an unattractive snort, but kept focused on his task.

"Been thinking about quitting and coming home, to tell you the truth," Byron grumbled, free from his usual compulsion to be Professional about it all. "I've been applying at schools, but maybe I don't even want to do that any more. Maybe I'll be a sheep farmer, who gives a shit? What are you up to lately?"

Bowen’s plant suddenly exploded into a large vine, trailing down over the kitchen table and onto the floor. “Oi,” he blinked at his older brother, eyes maybe a touch red around the rims. “D’you wanna like, take a second. That was– you just said you wanna be a sheep farmer. And that you don’t give a shit,” he served a disbelieving, arch look that only an annoying younger sibling could pull off. “You give way too many shits. All of the shits.”

Byron scoffed, and rolled his eyes so hard that they nearly fell out of his head. "I used to give a shit, and look where it got me? Cleaning up dad's messes every day with nothing better in sight. My life's basically over. I might as well give up the whole having dreams and ambitions thing. It only ever ends in disappointment." He snapped his fingers and the vine rolled back up into a neat little coil on the table.

Bowen seemed to be struggling with this, blinking in genuine confusion. “But, you're a werewolf.”

Byron looked at his younger brother as though he'd just sprouted a second head. "Yeah?? That's why??? I'm fucking cursed, Bowen. In case you haven't noticed."

It was Bowen’s turn to roll his eyes, but when the younger wizard did it, high as he was, it looked more like an eye twitch. “Oh my god is this your Oscar's submission? For your consideration, Byron Best, werewolf? Like, obviously the whole biting and transforming against your will thing is fucked and I really thought Wyn was going to travel through the phone and try to choke Brod out for keeping it a secret or something, but,” and he smiled, eyes bright as he leaned in. “You’re a werewolf. That's so fucking cool mate.”

Byron shook his head, disbelieving. "There's nothing cool about it. It fucking sucks, mate. There's not a single positive thing to be said about being a werewolf, Bowen. I can't have a normal job, I can't touch anyone, I'll never be in a normal relationship, I get to spend a week sick and/or in pain before possibly killing someone… and then I have to do it all again. Over and over. Forever and ever. Until some other werewolf or Van Helsing or something kills me. It 's fucking shit is what it is."

Bowen was quiet for a moment, his smile having long since faded at Byron’s impassioned rant. The thing was, Broderick was more like a father sometimes, but Byron was Bowen’s brother, and annoying or not Bowen held quite a lot of hero worship for him (secretly, don’t be gross). This was a Byron he hadn’t seen before and the youngest Best boy suddenly understood why Broderick had seemingly uprooted himself to follow.

“D’you want a spliff?”

Byron let out a surprised laugh at that very kind and very Bowen offer, but then that laughter turned into a sob and he quickly buried his face in his hands, ashamed of his tears. The grief that he'd been attempting to hold back all this time washed over him like a wave, and it took him a minute before he was able to compose himself enough to speak again, even while still feeling like he was drowning.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Bowen. Yes, I would… I fucked up. I'm sorry."

Eyes large in his head, Bowen cursed softly under his breath and wondered where the hell Broderick had gotten to. Bowen wasn’t – no one ever came to him for –

“Um, Bro – Byron, hey,” he shuffled up unsteadily, dirt falling to the floor where it had creased in his lap. He rounded the table so that he could wrap his arms around his older brother, burrowing his face into the space where neck met shoulder.

“You didn’t fuck up,” he shushed him, earnestly, clumsily like a child does with their beloved older sibling. “I didn’t mean to – I just think it’s cool. I do, I deal to a bunch of wolves and they’re like, brilliant. They let me tag along to their shows sometimes – punk,” he rambles in fits and starts, lethargically, like a misshapen wheel trucking along.

“I’m sorry you’re scared,” he said. And he was sorry for the dirt that was also getting smeared all over Byron’s shirt. And for smelling like weed.

But the weed and the dirt are a comfort to Byron as he sniffled into his brother's shoulder, because it smelled like Bowen. It smelled like love.

"Thank you. I miss you. I'm sorry I—fuck, I haven't been a very good brother to you. I'm sorry. I was scared to tell you. I didn't want you to hate me."

“That’s – “ Bowen stopped abruptly; Byron had always had a bad habit of defining himself by his intelligence (a problem most of the Bests had actually - Bowen would know, he watched them all spiral about it on the regular). Maybe it was the warmth of the drugs talking, but the younger Best didn’t want to give Byron any more tools to hurt himself.

“The only time I ever hated you was when you convinced me I was a sheep changeling,” he mumbled into Byron’s neck. “That was so fucked, by the way.”

Byron managed to chuckle through the tears. "I'm sorry. It was really funny at the time. And your hair was so fluffy."

Bowen leaned back, wondering if this was an acceptable time to jam his elbow into Byron’s solar plexus. “Wanciwr,” he said instead and brought the joint back up to Byron’s face. “I think you just need to relax. You’re all competing for the highest blood pressure and getting nowhere at all for your troubles.”

He sniffed. “Also you’re fuck ugly,” he added as peaceably as he said anything. “You a fuck ugly wolf too?”

"Wanciwr," Byron teased back, grateful for his brother pretending he hadn't just witnessed his moment of vulnerability. "'Course I'm fucking ugly. A regular jabberwork—jaws that bite and claws that catch. Now, are you going to give me some of that good shit or what?"

Bowen sighed but handed it over. “It’s my best stuff, the Conservation Authority gives me pretty much free range of the entire reserve. The things I’m growing…” he grins at Byron before settling down in the chair next to him. It was a modest statement, with his gifts, Bowen was one of the rising wizard conservationists helping to manage a number of the Welsh nature reserves.

“You know, some of the wolves I know were bitten too, and they lead pretty great lives from what I can tell. One of them fucking wails on the guitar, mate. And Freya is married and everything,” he shrugged.

Byron just stared at him as he lit the joint with a click of his fingers. "You're just fucking with me." he said disbelievingly, taking a drag.

That just seemed to annoy Bowen who was insistent, even as he took the spliff from his brother’s hands. “You’re both here for a few days eh? Come out with me, I’ll introduce you.”

Byron looked a little puzzled—so Bowen wasn't joking? He still seemed as though he was waiting for the punchline when he finally agreed, "Yeah, all right. I'll go. But if you just take me out into the woods and grow moss in my hair again, I'm gonna be really pissed off."

Bowen smiled his gentle smile that betrayed the sheer magnitude of how much of an asshole he truly could be. “Shouldn’t let it get so greasy the—”

“What the fuck is this,” Broderick’s voice boomed out over the kitchen, outrage clear in his expression and modeled mockingly by Bethany who came up just behind him. “How many fucking times have I told you to do it outside? This wood absorbs those smells, you little shit, I know you know this. Why? Because I fucking told you last time.”

Their eldest brother gestured for the joint, one hand on his hip in an egregious dad-pose.

Byron put his hands up in surrender, as though to lie IT WASN'T ME! even though he was clearly involved.

Broderick served that a disbelieving stare as he waited for Bowen to put the joint between his fingers. It was only then, as he brought the spliff to his mouth to inhale, that he noticed both of their faces. Well, Bowen’s eyes were fairly regularly red, but Byron’s…

“What happened here,” he narrowed his eyes as he blew the smoke out, unsuccessfully fending off Bethany’s grab for the joint.

Byron, red-eyed, made excuses quickly. "It's therapeutic. It's self-care. He's cheering me up." His hands were still in the air.

At the implication that Byron needed cheering up, the shift in Broderick’s demeanor was noticeable, so predictable in fact that Bethany had neatly headed him off before the first wrinkle in his eyebrow creased.

“What’s therapeutic is telling us the hot gossip, Byron. Start with Dad,” she inclined her head, blowing showy smoke rings over to Bowen who barely blinked (it was always best to not rise to Bethany’s taunting, something only Broderick had yet to learn). “Then I want to hear about everyone Brod’s insulted, in order of cuntiness.”

She smiled then, sweet as a demon. “Then you can tell us about who he’s shagging.”

Byron leaned in, conspiratorial and happy for the change in focus. "Oh, have I got gossip for you… "