[ Will doesn't do this. He doesn't give into his urges for closeness, for reaching out. He knows that what lays beyond the barriers he's set for himself is risk, is the chance that he'll show too much and others will see too much; that Will might see too much.
Might lose himself, like an over-bold swimmer caught in a riptide.
But holding Peter right now, feeling someone so tall shrink themselves down to curl in against Will and cling to his shirtfront...it feels like it might be worth that trade.
And then Peter starts speaking, and Will is horrified by the words — he couldn't say if he's more afraid of Peter being correct or Peter being wrong. Both possibilities point towards Will's greatest fear for himself, don't they? Losing a grip on reality. Wandering, becoming lost. Will thinks they're metaphors...but Peter wandered onto the deck and didn't know where he was. Does he mean this all literally?
Will's lips are parted but silent, dismay clear on his face...and that's before Peter starts to pull away. Will's expression splits with sorrow as soon as he realizes what's happening — denial of what they both just barely discovered — and Will can't help his own reflex to look down, to stare at Peter's face to look for why.
It's almost, but not quite, like looking into a mirror. Shame, a sense of pestilence; of contamination. Will usually fears catching it from others, but Peter fears...passing it along?
Will is too far removed from belief in God or the supernatural to see through the thin lines of Peter's implications. And— too impulsive and hurt, for a moment, to let go. Will's hands pull from Peter's shoulders when Peter leans away, but Will catches at his sleeves, at the fronts of them, as Peter moves. ] I don't care if it is contagious, Peter. I'm not— [ What's true? What can go here, so early into learning about his cousin? Will's expression is open even in the poor lighting on deck; distressed, uneasy, maybe a little more scared than an adult his age ought to be by cryptic refusals and self-condemnations. ]
—I'm not afraid of you. [ It's not always true, hasn't even been true just tonight. But what Will means, what's under the soft white lie, is something more akin to a dirty secret than a reassurance: 'Even if I was afraid, I don't think I'd be smart enough to leave in time'. ]
...I can, um. Take you back to your room. [ Will hasn't let go, still. The gap with cold air between them feels impossibly wide, wider than his arm span. ] You shouldn't be out in the cold.
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Might lose himself, like an over-bold swimmer caught in a riptide.
But holding Peter right now, feeling someone so tall shrink themselves down to curl in against Will and cling to his shirtfront...it feels like it might be worth that trade.
And then Peter starts speaking, and Will is horrified by the words — he couldn't say if he's more afraid of Peter being correct or Peter being wrong. Both possibilities point towards Will's greatest fear for himself, don't they? Losing a grip on reality. Wandering, becoming lost. Will thinks they're metaphors...but Peter wandered onto the deck and didn't know where he was. Does he mean this all literally?
Will's lips are parted but silent, dismay clear on his face...and that's before Peter starts to pull away. Will's expression splits with sorrow as soon as he realizes what's happening — denial of what they both just barely discovered — and Will can't help his own reflex to look down, to stare at Peter's face to look for why.
It's almost, but not quite, like looking into a mirror. Shame, a sense of pestilence; of contamination. Will usually fears catching it from others, but Peter fears...passing it along?
Will is too far removed from belief in God or the supernatural to see through the thin lines of Peter's implications. And— too impulsive and hurt, for a moment, to let go. Will's hands pull from Peter's shoulders when Peter leans away, but Will catches at his sleeves, at the fronts of them, as Peter moves. ] I don't care if it is contagious, Peter. I'm not— [ What's true? What can go here, so early into learning about his cousin? Will's expression is open even in the poor lighting on deck; distressed, uneasy, maybe a little more scared than an adult his age ought to be by cryptic refusals and self-condemnations. ]
—I'm not afraid of you. [ It's not always true, hasn't even been true just tonight. But what Will means, what's under the soft white lie, is something more akin to a dirty secret than a reassurance: 'Even if I was afraid, I don't think I'd be smart enough to leave in time'. ]
...I can, um. Take you back to your room. [ Will hasn't let go, still. The gap with cold air between them feels impossibly wide, wider than his arm span. ] You shouldn't be out in the cold.