“I don’t know. Ama worries too much and I never get to have any fun because she’s always right there telling me not to do this or not to do that because she wants me safe.” He pauses to look at you, scrunching his face and sticking out his little tongue. Beneath his satire there is a glimmer of affection, the smallest hint of a smile. “All of the other girls that I know are the same. Maybe you just thought it was a girl but it was really a boy. That makes more sense to me.” You cannot help but to laugh in spite of (because of) his mockery, laugh at all of the things he couldn’t possibly know. A quick glance is thrown to the man as if you need reassurance, as if all of those moments that have passed between the two of you, how you would have given him forever if only he had wanted it (wanted you), every ounce of unrequited love that sits so heavy now in your chest, would mean nothing if he did not remember too.

He does his best to pretend your amusement has gone unnoticed, does his best to not betray the heat that rises to his skin in embarrassment, in annoyance, though you cannot help but notice the flick of his ears tilting backwards, the way he ever so subtly rolls his eyes, only serving to renew your humor. It strikes a cord within your soul, a papercut that stings, bleeds, and you can only try to ignore it; to reassure yourself that it is normal for children to rebel, for them to feel smothered before they understand the way the world works, that you are doing what is right for him, even if it strains, fractures, the bond between the two of you. That, someday, he would grow up and know that everything that you have done, all the things you have sheltered him from despite his protests, his anger, had been for him.

“You know, maybe he’s right.” You grin, shrugging your shoulders, pushing away the memories of a man you used to know, all of his concern, the days, weeks that followed when it had only been the two of you, when you had thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t only you that burned. “Girls really are just good for worrying.” Afterall, it had been worry that led you to follow him blindly into the heart of the earth the day you had met, worry that sent you chasing after him when the sounds of chaos had him throwing himself in danger’s way too, too many times; worry that had carved him a place in your heart. “Unless there is something—perhaps someone—worth being brave for.” You do not look to him as he had looked to you, afraid, always afraid, of finding a lack of his affection, of seeing the stark contrasts between reality and all of your wide-eyed dreams.

“Besides, if I didn’t worry about you, who would?” It is meant for the both of them; though you nudge the colt’s tiny shoulder, smile yet again, unwilling to allow the sandstone man the chance to look deeper, to understand. Etziel only huffs, shying from your touch in his typical stubborn fashion, unwanting to provoke further conversation about women and their silly, ineffectual ways. Maybe Rohan had someone else—for all of the time you have spent with him he has spent more away, more alone; the thought causes you to shift uncomfortably, pinpricks of jealousy cutting through the remnants of tenderness that you still hold for the man despite everything, your bitterness sour as it rises in the back of your throat. What would it mean if he had? He had pushed you away—rejected you when you had offered the prospect of a life together, when you came with nothing but love, dreams woven of what could be.

What would it mean if there was someone else—if, in all of his choices, his broken promises, sweet nothings, not only abandoned you, your sun, moon, universe, but also chose someone else, too? Your eyes lift to find his face once more, eyebrows knitting together as you try to understand the turmoil inside of you, why it even matters when it had been his choice. “Ama, I want to see the rest of the beach.” You blink, nodding as you look down on him, forcing yourself to smile. “Of course.” He springs ahead without so much as a second thought to the man, and though you follow, you move slowly, coming close enough to feel the man’s heat, your hummingbird heart beating erratically in your chest. Your eyes follow the lines of his body almost in memory, your own body aching with familiar need, the want to simply touch him, hold him, entirely too painful (it was his choice). As you pass him fully, you pause, a backwards glance the only indication that you, for once, want for him to follow.