Will looks up at him after a moment, noticing him, and doesn't even try to smile. He just nods once in recognition, like even that is too much for him. It makes Bran sad. It makes him feel helpless and the helplessness makes him feel angry. "What's wrong with you?"
"Something you wouldn't understand," Will says, quietly, and that only makes him more angry. He jumps up onto the rock and pulls Will up, so they're facing each other, looking into each other's eyes.
"What wouldn't I understand? Why wouldn't I understand? Am I just a stupid Welshman to you, is that it?"
"Bran... of course it isn't. It's just -- "
"What is it, then? Tell me!"
Will shakes his head and turns away from him, looking up at the birds wheeling high overhead, disturbed from their usual resting place by the two boys. Bran shivers a little, because it feels as if no matter what he says or does, Will's depression only thickens around them, as if it could swallow them whole. He reaches out to touch Will and then lets his hand fall, waiting, waiting in silence to force Will to speech.
"I can't tell you," he says, finally. "I shouldn't have come here, that's all."
"To Craig yr Aderyn?"
"To Wales."
"Is it really so bad?" Bran asks, all flaring arrogance and anger in his attempt to claw down the barrier that it seems to him Will has put up against him. He puts his hand on Will's shoulder and swings him round, looking into his eyes. He still doesn't understand, but by now, he doesn't have to -- hardly wants to. He just wants his Will back, the plain, comfortable Englishman, always calm, always practical and grounded and right there instead of this horribly ancient and fragile being, lost in distance. "Is it?"
"It's hell!" Will's voice is suddenly, subtly different, his eyes far-away and unfamiliar, suddenly something adult and alien and hurt. Bran lets go of his shoulder, looking down at him -- two inches of height but oh, so useful when it comes to outfacing Will -- and gives him a look, not sure if he's pleading or promising or demanding. Will doesn't seem to know how to feel either.
"What's so bad about it?" he asks, finally. "I've tried to -- "
Quickly, automatically -- "It's not your fault."
"Damn it, yes it is! You're standing there looking at me as if I'm your personal demon. What's wrong? Why is it hell? What exactly is this hell you're not really talking about? Iesu mawr, Will, I can take it, just tell me!"
"This," Will says, suddenly intense, as if something snapped, and all of a sudden Bran finds himself jerked down, Will's mouth covering his, eager and desperate as an arm curls around his neck and fingers tangle into his hair. This, Will wanted this, and he never knew, and it feels so good to feel Will's sudden surrender to his feelings, a breaking of the tension so perfect he thinks he couldn't've planned it better if he'd tried. He kisses back, fervently, savouring the taste of desperation in Will's mouth. He knows this isn't it, not all of it, but Will is so lost in him and so desperately eager that he's not going to push anymore, not going to break Will open to find out what's wrong.
Will pulls back to break the kiss, and Bran presses forward, kissing him again, passionately, hungrily, like he'll die if he stops. They're both breathing hard, and Will's eyes are tight-shut now, and Bran thinks that maybe, maybe Will is crying. He doesn't stop, can't stop, just wraps his arms tight around Will and holds him, feels the shivers in his body that might become sobs.
"It's okay," he says, when he stops. "I don't understand, you're right. Mainly because you won't tell me. But I'm here."
"Not for long," Will says, with almost unearthly calm after his desperation. He curls his fingers in Bran's hair again and kisses him again, so softly and tenderly Bran thinks it might break his heart even though he has no idea why that should be.
"Forever, if you want it," Bran says, not knowing why, only knowing it seems the right thing.
"I want it," Will says, his voice full of that ancient unutterable sadness again, and Bran draws him close and kisses him hard and fiercely before he can say it's not possible, before he can withdraw again. He kisses him as if he can give Will all the love in him, kisses like he's drowning, like they're drowning, and Will holds onto him.
"Then you have it," he says, pulling back for just a moment, his lips still brushing Will's. He won't let Will say anything, now; he holds him, holds him so close they could almost become one, and he lets him cry on his shoulder, and still he holds him.
The birds cry out above Craig yr Aderyn, and Bran thinks they sound triumphant.