Against the Wind

8.3 || Raya

They went on like that—her picking at his leftovers as he ate, both swathed in awkward silence—until the meal was done. He licked the stickiness from his fingers, and she watched, a wall building in her throat. All the words she was sure she'd prepared to say were gone.

Seeking a way to avoid staring for too long, her gaze drifted to the discarded pipe set beside his thigh. Though she'd seen reasonably similar instruments before, usually carved by a man with too much time on his hands and solemnly blown in long, laboured notes at the side of the street, this one's shape was decidedly foreign. Its end billowed out like a pressed skirt, wide and flat. The thin read nestled into the other end had the aged look of something used time and time again. Even the shade of the wood was unfamiliar, a red-tinted sepia that matched no tree she'd ever seen before.

It had never occurred to her that beastfolk would care for such things, but when his eyes slid to follow where she looked, deep affection blossomed within them. Wariness clipped its edges as he snagged her gaze. "You will take it?"

She stole a breath, aware of how tight her lungs were beginning to feel, and managed to shake her head.

He fingered the edges of the empty plate in his lap. Long, pale bangs fell in front of his eyes, shielding them. "You were angry—"

"I was worried," she said quickly, stumbling over the words. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped. I know this must be..." She rolled her tongue around her mouth, hands wriggling under her legs and then back out again. The base of one heel dug into the other. "Hard."

Hard was a small, simple word, and it felt stupid to say. She wanted to kick herself—really kick herself, not the pathetic ache of her feet pressed together as the pressure increased.

While she chewed her lip, she dared to peer across at him. His ears twitched downward again, caught in perpetual motion as the thoughtful look on his face darkened.

"What is it?" she asked, latching onto the question and holding tight when it lifted his head. "The, ah..." She flicked a glance at the pipe again.

He scratched a spot beneath one of those long, drooped ears, ruffling the whitish hair nestled there. "I... do not know what you would call it."

"Pipe?" she offered tentatively. It didn't sound right. Frowning, she dug deeper, selecting an older word. "Flute?"

"Flute," he echoed, nodding slowly. "I like that word."

He did have such a soft voice, despite the rolled, growling twang of his accent. She tried a smile. "It's a lovely flute."

His fingers drifted along the flute's length in a light, careful caress, and his lips tweaked in a distant smile. Like the trickling sunlight, it was bright but quick to wane. His nostrils twitched with his slow, laden sigh. The scrunch of his shoulders diminished his size, draining the brief, gentle peace he'd held and reshaping it into a far heavier sadness. The pain seemed to gush from nowhere, but it had a raw, unmasked nature that felt so unfamiliar it hollowed out Raya's chest.

Her throat was dry. With difficulty, she summoned back her voice. "I'm sorry," she repeated, ashamed she couldn't find anything more to say. It sounded stilted: a small, callous murmur when he needed far more than her empty apologies.

When he didn't reply, her guilt pooled into the air in the shape of icicles. Her room wasn't cold, but a shiver looped her spine all the same, tying aching knots around her bones. It would be rude to leave. She couldn't flee, but the sheer weight of emotion wrapped her throat and threatened to choke her.

Some selfish part of her writhed. She'd saved his life. She'd brought him a meal, put everything at stake in her pledge to protect him. That part asked how much more he wanted her to give before he'd stop wallowing in what he couldn't have, things that were out of her control. It wanted her to truly be angry.