Blacklisted

By Megan

For: Littlebutfierce's request on Fandom Challenges for Charity

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

Summary: Bran/Will lime. Loving bonds are greater than any magic…but what does that mean, exactly?

Light and sound, he thinks. It's nothing but light and sound.

Bran's mantra is lost in a roll of thunder, tumbled through the bracken like so many leaves and old sneakers. Wet sheets of wind come screaming across the hedgerows, rattling the glass beside him. His head is pushed against the surface, slick branches slapping at his face. From that head the neck curves painfully 'round a cornered frame, it's claws digging into his throat, deliciously painful. The body disappears among the linens—rough from work and burned by sun, but incapable of losing its transparency. Bran feels naked—he is—and his spine is trying to bend on the horizontal plane and arch on the vertical all at once. Perhaps it will snap, and leave him without feeling in his legs, in his—

"Oh," He breathes, fighting the curl of bone that begins as a heat at its end and travels like a chill to its base. One hand folds its lifeline into the window, sweaty palm mimicking outdoor-moisture. The other is fisted in Will's hair, resting a ways above its normal position. His head hurts, his bones ache, but they are little things. Small as the raindrops millimeters from his skin, when compared to the storm—the ache—that, as with his spine, begins with those hands and tongue, ends as a pressure on his ribs. Will takes too long, is too silent and powerful and unreal….

When Bran lifts his cheek from the window, it stings. Despite the fury and pleasure in the act, beneath it is a mechanical coldness—something in the way Will does no look him in the eye, or speak, or even seem to breathe. It is as though he barely registers what is happening, as though Bran's fulfillment is a means to an end that neither have ever truly reached. It was something less than sex, what they had. Something less than human nature. It was a process, a simple and dirty process that left Bran aching for something more.

Love is about gentleness and mistakes, and they'd had plenty of that before. Outside of this room overlooking nothing but endless hills, impenetrable brush and brick. All of it wet all of the time. All of it obscured by fog.

Sex is about pressure—and Bran knows they have that, he knows that to him it is just sex, but to will it is something more which makes it less. He makes too much of the process, not enough of the passion, and bungles it all up in a spectacularly-English-sort-of-way.

What they have now is about a pattern. It is something cold and calculated, something moving along paths that Will can see and Bran can remember at the back of his mind.

There is a point where one leads and the other follows, but Bran knows the switch is nearing, and he shoves at Will a little early, insurrecting. Will snorts and shoves him back down, not quite finished with his role. Bran pushes harder, tugging Will's head back by the hair still in his fist, using his other hand on the window for leverage. He pulls his legs away from Will's chest and stands shakily, nearing climax but forgoing it to spite the thing their relationship has become.

Yet, it is never enough. Will is wiser than he, and adapts quickly without truly changing. Lightning erases the shadows from Bran's flesh, edges him in light. His eyes flash, and for a moment some ancient arrogance within them strikes Will at his core. His face crumples—a familiar vulnerability that makes Bran sick—and he levels a hand at the now-mortal face.

Bran scowls, wanting to shove the hand away, but as always rooted to the spot. He feels like one of the lightning bolts—an arc of electricity rising out of the earth, following a path of particles to the wet sky. Fingers spread, the hand wavers slightly, compelled by its master's weakness. Bran's scowl deepens, his eyes convey nothing in their depths, though the slant of his brows and the lowering of his lids is a question of disapproval. Why are you doing this? It asks. What is it you want me to be, and why am I not enough to you now?

Will looks away, lips in profile pursing to the flow of an old dialect. It feels older than Bran's own language, truer. The words are the opposite of other-worldly—they are so deeply rooted in the earth that all else seems alien to it. The words make Bran feel young and small and dirty, as though he is not strong or pure enough to understand. All he wants is to understand, all he wants is for Will to trust and accept him as he once did. The other boy is a hopeless shadow of his former self, the knowing eyes now haunted, the plain-yet-striking features gaunt and searching.

"Remember," Will begs, and Bran screams in a new kind of fury, one fueled by frustration and love and hate. His sight falters for a moment, and when his fist sluices along Will's cheekbone, he imagines the skeletal, laughing face of a horse.

The voice within him is not his own, but the tone and need are familiar enough. "You misinterpret your own laws, Old One. Loving bonds are outside of all magic—they cannot be affected by it, but neither it feel their influence." Will sobs, but Bran takes no mind. He is yelling, body on fire—a force that speaks from the earth and takes power from the storm outside (between) them.

"They will not force him to remember you, child. But they allow him to love you without the memories. He doesn't need adventure to accept you, and you should not demand the same of him."

Thunder follows the lightning, dispelling the energy, cutting off the voice. Bran shudders, and stands panting, an ache spreading through his numbed fingers. Will won't look at him, doesn't fondle his wounded cheek. He used to like the Welshman's lean arms. Bran doesn't think he notices them anymore.

"It's right," he whispers. "I know you want me to understand what it was really talking about, but I can't, and I don't understand why that changes anything. You think you're so old Will. So superior, so alone. And all the time I'm right here loving you. Why don't you notice me anymore?" The final words come plaintively, almost like a whine.

Bran reaches out for him, but Will keeps his gaze on the window, on the storm outside. There's moisture on his cheeks, clotted blood beneath the skin, and the curious absence of a white stain on his chin. Bran's arousal was forgotten long ago, but the blankness renews it. He pushes Will back onto the bed, straddling his torso, studying the wrinkles where Will's body sinks into the mattress. "Fuck you," he mutters, unmindful of the moisture trailing down his face. The tears betray nothing, they mean nothing. It is the tone of his voice and the air of defeat that reeks of his anger and his disappointment. "Fuck you, Will Stanton. Fuck you and your whole damn race."

Will's face remains to the side. He still refuses to speak. Such is the pattern—there is the ancient, oily moment of language, and then further silence. Bran didn't expect Will to break the pattern simply because he had. Yet, he is so angry, that he cannot help but become angrier still by this conformation. He takes his lover by the shoulders and shakes him, feels no resistance. You don't understand, the body seems to plead. There's no point in telling you because you do not understand. You gave up who you were, you have up long ago, and now it is my turn.

Bran grinds into him, bites the offensive cluster of bone at the base of his shoulder. "You don't deserve me. I've put up with this for so long…I'm supposed to be special to you. Not in what you think I could be, but in what I am. I should leave you," he sobs. "I should leave right now and find someone else, but I can't because this isn't me. I'm not the problem Will—you are. I love you and I don't want anyone else, but you do. You want me to be someone else, someone I forgot after I met you, and then you expect me to understand all of this. I hate you," a growl begins deep in his abdomen and travels through his heated insides. "I hate you so much…."

He stops moving. Once more, he goes without the relief of climax. The pressure in his chest waxes and wanes with each breath, each word. "Why won't you love me anymore?" he whimpers, laying his head on the cold chest. Will's arms circle his back, pulling him closer, but he doesn't feel closer to him. He doesn't feel much of anything, except the need for this to end.

"You're right," Will finally says. Bran doesn't know if he's speaking to him or the voice from before, but it is enough to hear that rough voice stumbling through its own accent. "You're right and there's nothing I can do. I just…this could've lasted forever…I didn't want to be the one that lived Bran—I still don't. I know you can't understand what I'm talking about, but I just don't want you to be the one that leaves."

"That's life," Bran hisses. "Will, death is a part of life, and we all have to go eventually." He resists the urge to hit him again. "I can't believe you've been doing this to me because of something so stupid. I'm going to live for years yet. I'm going to be right here, unless you don't stop ruining everything. I didn't know your people were so bad at this as well—no wonder you had to take over half the world—inbreeding was about to kill you all, I bet." Will chuckles, and the pressure in Bran's chest is eased more quickly now, his breathing deeper, slower, calmer.

"Aye," Will grunts, turning onto his side. I'll do better, his bruise says. Bran's answer touches it with cool, dry lips.

A/N: I have no idea where that came from. Littlebutfierce didn't specify a plot, but said she liked the 'Bran remembers' plots…but I don't think he should have to remember. So…I wrote about my interpretation of the loving bonds thing. Hope it made some semblance of sense to you all. I have to go rest my eyes after looking at this screen for so long.