Emptiness, the breath of air against your body where he had been, is what you wake to. It does not come exactly as a surprise, his absence—he had a habit, it seemed, of keeping himself just out of your reach; escaping just as familiarity set in, though you cannot decipher if it intentional or not. Despite the way your head swims, the ache set deep in your body, you climb to your feet, unaware or uncaring of the beauty that is nestled around you, your mind focused solely on finding him. And so you teeter forwards, following the marks in the soft sand between the spaces of thick brush, at times the ground disappearing entirely in deep greens. The sound of the ocean, what had been a distant exchange of calm and then rushing, grows to a roar as the trees thin, the light from the morning seeps brighter and brighter through the new sky.

It is not this that you are particularly concerned with, nor the sorrow of the memories that the shore brings, but the shape of a man against its vast expanse, alight with the soft kiss of dawn. For a moment you simply watching him, allowing your heart the moments it needs to resolve the erratic pace that has taken hold, to blink the sleepiness from your eyes.

Finally, you move along the beach towards him, the ghost of a touch pressed along the length of his body as you reach him, mismatched eyes examining the damage that the fire had done, all of the hurt that you cannot undo. Your own shoulder twinges at the memory, itchy scabs growing over the flesh that had been melted away by the wrath of a god, but it is not this, not the stab of pain that had spread like darkness through your head, the way that it exhausted you to even breathe, not this that had concerned you. It had been the stench of burnt flesh, the way you knew he hurt beneath all the macho bullshit that he hid behind (something you would never tell him, allow him to keep his pride), the threat of infection in the humid heat of the islands; his pain, his pain and his denial of it had been the worst. You had been convinced that, as long as he was alright, none of the rest of it mattered.

He had tried to protest; maybe thinking that if he simply pretended it didn’t hurt enough, that it wouldn’t, thinking maybe that if he hid those hurts from you, it would make him seem braver, bolder, somehow. It is something that had bothered you to no end, only made you insist harder, respecting him too much to simply ignore his wishes and help him without his consent. Your eyes roll in their sockets at his stubbornness (stupidity) before finally sweeping upwards to the set line of his jaw, lips folding into a soft smile (if he looked, what would he see? What would you, in those green, green eyes? Nothing.)

You breathe a long breath, cherishing the pine and dust and salt of his skin, things so far, so vastly different from your home and yet held so much closer to your heart all the same, your gaze lingering on him as you settle beside him, your skin near enough to radiate with the warmth of his but not close enough to touch just yet, lingering for just a moment before that moment becomes too much, before tearing away over the sands and the waves and the sun, your body moving steps ahead and away from him, into the grasp of the cool waters as they rush against your legs, leaving you to swallow all of the words that you are not brave enough to say, just yet (and you wonder if you ever will be).

“You should be resting.”

But when you turn back to him, look to him from under those long, long eyelashes, it is not overbearing concern that smothers, but something tender, secret, something holding the thousand and one questions that you have wanted to ask since that day (you had heard it in the way his voice trembled, you know you did; know you felt it in his hesitant caress when he finally made it to you, know you have felt it in your heart and the way it aches every time you look at him, breathe him, feel him, the way it is his face you see every time you close your eyes) but are too afraid that, should you ask, give to these things, all these terribly fond things, he has made you feel despite yourself,  tomorrow, he would be gone.

“Rohan—”
(If he looked, what would he see?)

You cannot help but wonder how long you can continue to pretend.