Exposed (theme: peeling paint)
Note:
exposed /ikˈspōz/ v. 1. make (something) visible, typically by uncovering it. 2. cause someone to experience or be at risk of. or put (someone) in an unprotected and vulnerable state. 4. make (something embarrassing or damaging) public. 5. reveal the true and typically objectionable nature of (someone or something). 6. introduce someone to (a subject or area of knowledge)
Will stares at the walls. He thinks he might be like these walls, thick layers of paint, peeling in places to expose the raw surface below. He thinks of how just being around Bran is peeling back more layers and exposing more of himself that has been hidden, held back. He wonders if it's wise, if he can handle it all. Will still has his secrets, things that are necessary for him to keep hidden - but he also desperately wants to share them, to have someone to share them with.
He's afraid, he reasons. Bran had chosen to forget as a child, and Will won't make him remember - doesn't even know if he can. Won't, even as much as he wants to, wants someone else to know, wants someone to help him bear the burden. He's afraid he won't be able to keep his secret from Bran. He's afraid that if he tries, it will tear them apart, tear him apart.
The fear knots his stomach and keeps him awake, even now, in the dead of night. He needs Bran, needs what Bran can give him - his humanity, his soul - but he fears the risk is too great.
"You're thinking is keeping me awake," Bran grumbles, shifting and throwing an arm over Will's stomach.
"Sorry," Will whispers, breath hitching at the contact. They've yet to go beyond kissing, hand-holding and Bran understands that Will isn't ready for more than that, that Will is afraid - maybe not of what precisely. He's content with Will's concession to share the bed instead of his buying one which would eventually go to disuse.
Bran grunts a bit as he shifts up to lean on one arm, looking down on Will in the dark. "You're wound tighter than a spring," he observes, concern lacing his voice. "It's not me is it?"
"No- yes- I mean, not really, it-" Will struggles with his desire to tell Bran everything and his need to keep it all from him.
"What's wrong, Will bach?" Bran asks, so gently that Will can't not say anything.
"Nothing - everything - oh Bran." He thinks he might cry, his center, his calm eroded by strain, torn in two as he is by his opposing needs. His clenched fists dig crescent shaped marks in his palms, biting and grounding him a bit - the only outward sign of his struggle.
His nerves feel like they're tightening, trying to hold him in, trying to suffocate him, even as his mask frays, shreds, peels away like old paint, falling apart. "You know you can tell me anything," is the soft reply, shattering him further.
In his head, a voice murmurs that he could tell. He could tell then take it away, make Bran forget all over again, but he could tell. And maybe, maybe it would be enough - or maybe it would break him further, the secrets, the lies, the knowing.
The thought leaves an unpleasant taste in Will's mouth. He doesn't think he could make Bran forget again, even if the other hated him for it.
"And if it sounded outrageous?" Will finally ventures, eyes on the dark ceiling, the dark walls, - an irony, he thinks, one of the Light taking refuge in the dark. He tries to hold onto his mask, his Old One self, his last shreds of composure.
The soft kiss against his ear startles him more than the airy whisper. "Anything."
