Even his family don't know where he is, who he is now. That was the parting that hurt the most: he'd thought he could always fall back on that support, but it only took a few years for him to notice the dangers of that.
These days, he is still Will -- but Will Davies now. Quite why he chose Davies, he's not sure, but somehow it felt right, and he's sure Bran wouldn't mind, if he could be made to understand the necessity of it. It's a sort of tribute, he thinks, to his old life, and he smiles every time he says the name.
Well. He does know why he chose the name Davies, but he prefers not to think about that.
Will doesn't expect anyone from his former life to find him. He doesn't expect them to want to. But he sort of hopes that one of them, at least, will. He still hasn't been able to get Bran out of his mind -- he's like a teenage boy with a crush -- even now that he's twenty-eight and definitely old enough to leave behind the feelings he'd first had as a teenager.
It's ridiculous. Will consoles himself with the fact that it's almost to be expected -- he had a depth of connection with Bran he has never felt before, and will not allow himself to feel again. It's only natural to hang on to what one has; it's a very human thing, but then Will has always hated the idea that he's less or more than simply human anyway.
It still seems to him somewhat ridiculous, whenever he picks up the phone to hear Merriman's voice on the other end, without the usual intervening crackle of a normal phoneline. It's a phonecall from heaven, so to speak, although Will still has trouble imagining Merriman all in white with wings and a little harp or something, and is glad it won't be that way. He knows it's Merriman before he even picks up, of course, so he doesn't bother with a greeting. "Yes? Is there something -- ?"
"Can't I just want to know how you are?" Merriman asks, a rich amusement in his voice. He sounds more relaxed now, Will thinks, wistfully. He sounds as if having a rest is everything he wanted and needed. Will wonders when it will be his turn.
"You have other ways to find that out."
"Perhaps." There's a long pause, and then Merriman speaks again -- and now his voice is oddly soft with concern, as though he's making an effort to sound gentle. "From what I can tell, though, you're neglecting yourself. You cannot sequester yourself as you do. You are human enough to be a social creature and to need some company at the very least -- "
"It's too risky," Will says, barely realising that he's challenging the man who was his mentor -- who he always thought knew so much more than himself. There's a pause.
"Everything is risky. Walking out on the road is taking a risk."
"Not for me," he says, and there's even a hint of bitterness there. Not that he would want to die, not that he would walk into the road with a car coming anyway, whether he's immortal or not. He imagines getting hit by a car would still hurt quite a lot. It's just the feeling that there's another thing that separates him from the humanity he must protect: he cannot die, he can never leave his post or desert the cause, by his very nature.
"We're not talking about the risk you could take. We're talking about the risk people would take, being close to you."
"It's too risky," he says, again.
Merriman sounds thoughtful. "I don't think so, Will. You're afraid of something, but it's not the risk to other people."
Will doesn't know what to say. He's afraid of many things, these days: of being alone, of having company, of his dreams and thoughts and his inability to die and his own powers. Perhaps he's simply been alone too much, perhaps... But he still doesn't feel like putting himself out there and -- well, getting hurt.
As if he can hear his thoughts, Merriman breaks the silence. "You can't spend all your years on earth alone. To that end, we have... helped someone locate you. He should be there before long."
"Who?" Will asks, his heart suddenly apparently in his mouth.
"Bran Davies," Merriman said, and without saying anything else, he's gone, and a second later there's the familiar earthly dial tone, and he has no way of continuing the conversation -- no way to call back -- so he puts the phone down, slowly.
He takes a deep breath, staring at the door, half expecting there to be a knock or for someone to push the bell. A moment later, he shakes his head, shakes it off. It isn't like the Light to bluff, of course, not to one of their own, anyway, but he hopes even so that they're just trying to push him into doing something. He really isn't ready to see Bran. He probably never will be.
The knock on the door comes when he's half-buried in an ancient book, deciphering the language -- hampered somewhat by the fact that the writer didn't have too great a grasp on spelling to start with. Bran has to knock three times, the last time adding a kick into the routine, before Will goes to answer it -- and then he sees Bran outside, startling all over again in his paleness and arrogance, and in the edges of an uncharacteristic nervousness Will can virtually taste. For a minute, he doesn't know whether to answer it or slink back to his books and try to ignore it.
"Iesu mawr, Will, I know you're there, so open up already or so help me I'll break a window."
Before he even has time to overthink it some more, he's moving to the door, opening it, and Bran seems to move in a blur, arms suddenly moving around him and holding him tight. Hesitantly, he returns the hold, surprised at the part of him that's suddenly ready to admit that he's hungered for this. And then Bran steps away, looking a little embarrassed.
"It's been years, Will," he says, and then, suddenly, snapping, hurt: "Why did you never contact me? The letters just stopped when we were seventeen -- and every time I called your family said you were too busy -- and you broke contact with the Drews -- "
"Who told you where to find me?"
"Merriman," Bran says, with a tiny shrug. Will's heart leaps into his mouth again.
"Do you -- how -- did you -- ?"
Bran laughs. "Do I remember, you mean? I don't remember everything. I know enough."
"And... and you're content with that?"
"You're my friend," he says, shrugging. "I know that I don't know things about you, but I know enough to know that I don't really blame you for hiding away like this, and to know that you shouldn't be alone all the time."
Will swallows back a sudden disappointment: Bran is his friend, just his friend, and he's content with what he knows because that's all he is. For a while he thought -- from that hug, and probably because he was just hoping so very much for it -- that Bran would want more, that Bran would --
"Are you okay? You look a bit sick."
"Fine," Will says, shaking his head. He realises in a moment of awkwardness that they're still standing in the doorway, the door wide open, and so he pulls Bran inside and closes the door after him. He doesn't know what to think, what to do. Bran is more good looking than he remembers, his paleness and his eyes as startling and glorious as ever so that to look at Bran makes him feel a little breathless.
"You could start by asking me how I've been," Bran suggests, with a half-smile, as if he knows what's going on in Will's head. "Or you could offer me a cup of tea and something to eat."
Will has to laugh. "Tea first, I think. Come on."
"So," Bran says, leaning back and stretching his legs out. It is probably his third cup of tea, and they have been talking for hours -- talking interspersed with silences both comfortable and uncomfortable.
"So?" Will asks, and he finds himself smiling because all other factors aside, Bran is with him and he's not alone.
"Do you suppose we should start moving on to wine now? A bottle while we make dinner, a bottle during dinner, and on until we're drunk enough to -- well, 'til we're drunk."
"Drunk enough to what?"
"I don't know," Bran says, shrugging. He doesn't look uncomfortable. Will's not sure what he thinks of it -- drunk enough to what? To talk about the things he keeps secret? He can't do that. Drunk enough to kiss Bran? But then Bran doesn't seem to share the feelings of attraction, although there's certainly warmth and affection. Drunk enough... he shakes his head.
"Well, I don't have much wine, but I'm sure I can find some -- if you insist on being sophisticated like that. I taught for a while in a grammar school -- students gave me wine at the end of every term, I think. Some of it's even quite good."
Bran laughs. "Then go fetch it, then. One question, though."
"Yes?"
"Why is your second name Davies now?"
There's a long pause. Will doesn't know how to feel about this, either, perpetually thrown off balance by this whole situation. Finally, he clears his throat, shrugging a little. "It was a convenient alias. Nothing like Stanton."
"Ah," Bran says, and Will can't be sure if he's disappointed or not. For a moment, he stands as he is, and then he shrugs again, going to find them some wine. The bottles are no doubt hidden away somewhere cool and dusty, since he only drinks when he's got company, and this is the first time he's had company in years.
"I think I'm drunk enough now," Bran announces, some time later, when they've eaten and even done the washing up -- albeit in a hurried way that Will feels sure means he'll have to rewash some of those dishes. He couldn't concentrate, though, through the vague warmth of the wine and because of the occassional, apparently accidental touches from Bran that left him more confused with each time. Even now, he's thinking of it: did Bran do it on purpose? Is that hoping too much? Reading too much into it?
"Drunk enough to do what?" he asks, somewhat distantly.
"Well, I was planning to say something, but I could do something first if you like," Bran says, smirking a little. Will feels the sofa shifting under them and then gasps and flails somewhat ungracefully when Bran's lips suddenly press against his. He wants to respond, to do something about it, hold Bran close and never let go, but his body doesn't catch up to his brain fast enough, and his brain isn't going that fast either, and Bran is pulling back with an apologetic look on his face before he's even really registered what's happening. "I'm sorry, I thought -- "
Will laughs. He can't help it. It's a nervous, unhappy laugh, because he really doesn't know what he's doing, what the Light plans for them in the longterm. But there's gladness in it too, and at the same time he's pulling Bran closer to him again, moving a hand into his hair.
"You thought right," he says, and wonders if he's ever seen such a smile on Bran's face -- a smile that dawns slowly on his face, a real smile, without a single hint of arrogance or nervousness now. Slowly he leans closer and kisses Bran again -- softly, softly, and then suddenly hard and deep like he wants to drink him in, like this is the only kiss they'll ever share and he has to make it good.
"You're eager," Bran says, between kisses that are hurried and breathless and wonderful, and Will's not sure if that's supposed to be chiding or not, but he doesn't want to stop, he never wants to stop. His hands push up under Bran's shirt as Bran kisses at his neck, his head tilting back, and he relishes the tiny gasp he draws from Bran when he runs his hands up further, teasing. He moans softly when Bran nips at his neck, pressing closer with a little shiver of exhiliaration and almost-desperation, an eagerness beyond words for this, for Bran, running down his spine.
"I missed you," he says, and then, breath catching; "I love you."
"I love you too," Bran says, the look on his face serious and tender and happier than Will's ever seen, even than just now when he kissed him. "And if you think you are getting rid of me or the Light is ever separating us..."
"I suppose you'll allow me to go to the corner shop on my own?"
"Only just," Bran says, laughing, pushing Will down against the sofa. "I want you, Will."
"Have me, then," Will says, pulling Bran down against him. "Have me."