Wishing (theme: lost in thought)

note:
wish /wiSH/ n. 1. a desire or hope for something. 2. an expression of such a desire. 3. an invocation or recitation of a hope or desire. v. 1. to feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; to want for something that cannot or probably will not happen. 2. to silently invoke such a hope or dream, esp. in a ritualised way. 3. to feel or express a desire to do something. 4. to ask to do something or that something be done.

Will is quiet by nature. It's not unusual to find him lost in thought, drifting within the seas of his own mind. He tends to over-think things, to worry a decision to death before giving into action.

Bran finds him this way, staring down into a cup of tea as if the escapist bits of leaves hold the answers to the mysteries of the universe. "Nothing but tea in that cup, I'm afraid," the Welshman points out, drawing Will from his musings.

Grey-blue eyes, the colour of early seaside dawn, lift to meet tawny amber orbs, a smile crinkling the corners. Will doesn't think he could give this up any time soon, this thing he has with Bran. It makes him giddy-happy, but his happiness also is tinged with sadness. Sometimes, in his moments of darkest despair, he wishes it would be otherwise, that this could last forever, would never end - even beyond the bounds of time. He wishes that Bran won't grow old and die. That is not something even an Old One has the power to make come true.

"Do you regret it?" Will asks spontaneously, abruptly breaking out of his woolgathering with a force that startles him. He hadn't meant to voice the question, but now that he has... "Knowing now, do you regret choosing a mortal life over a life out of time, a life with your true father, eternity?"

Bran's look of surprise at Will's outburst melts into a thoughtful mien as he considers the question. It's the first time since that night that the subject has been broached and Will finds himself holding his breath.

"I can't rightly say I do," Bran says softly - the response lingering in the air between them for a brief, eternal moment. Bran smiles, eyes glittering as he continues. "If I had chosen to go, I wouldn't be here now, with you. I wouldn't have this." He reaches over to tangle his fingers with Will's, brushing a thumb over the soft inner wrist. "Do you? Regret it that is."

Will stares at their interlaced fingers, rough and calloused and real. He wants to say no, that he doesn't regret it one bit; but the truth is sometimes he does. Sometimes he regrets that, in a way, Bran choosing to stay was Bran choosing to give Will up along with his heritage, his place, his very nature - even if they are together now, if Bran had chosen otherwise, they would have been together always, beyond the ends of time - but only at the end of time. Sometimes he regrets that there wasn't another choice - Bran is his liege, his lord, his king, his… love.

Slowly this time, as if out of a fog, Will looks at Bran, taking him in: the pale, almost colourless skin - the tawny, cat-like eyes - the strong, regal features and bearing. "I can't," he all but whispers. "I can't like it entirely, but I can't regret it. You can't know-"

"No, I can't," Bran agrees, squeezing Will's hand. And Will wishes he could make Bran remember, make Bran know.

"I wish you could," Will replies, sadness once again colouring his words; and Bran gives him a look so warm and so honest that Will's heart aches all the more for that which he must one day lose.

"Me too, cariad, me too."