His breathing is unsteady when she touches him—when the stardust of her breath rolls over the simple flesh of his chest. He shudders because he cannot hide that he is undone by her. That having her attention on him is like staring into the sun. That having her touch him is like standing in the belly of it. There is nothing to compare, nothing that his simple mind can comprehend, and he does not even know the barest way of trying to protect himself from it; from trying to pretend that he is not as affected as he is.
He swallows at her answer, knowing what he wishes what she meant.
Knowing it is an impossible thing.
Knowing it is a tragic thing to love a god as he does.
“The stars?” he answers, because it is the only thing that would possibly make sense—the only thing that his mind can comprehend as being a logical answer. Everything else is impossible. More impossible than him not loving her, not loving his brother—not feeling the things that he feels in the core of him.
He swallows again, his throat dry and his tongue swollen, thick.
A pause as he lifts his large head to look into the darkness, peering into the endless expanse.
“I cannot imagine what it must be like to explore them,” but then again, he knows that he cannot imagine what any of her life must be like—what it must be like to be the beginning and the end, as she is.
turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along