Sunset

He is often the one to watch over her, for she is often the one to act on impulses childish and reckless. Some of his most vivid memories of her focus more on him playing the role of her absent conscience. Though he pretends it to be a burden, rescuing her from herself most of the time, those careless feats of hers are some of his fondest memories.

Today, however, it is her watching him. She does this from time to time, takes a few precious moments to herself, stands back and just watches him. He is a sight to behold, that is for certain, and he is glorious in motion, but she prefers to see him stand stalk still. The way he is this very moment.

He stands on a blade of grass, arms crossed over his chest, the slight flutter of his wings now and then the only movement. He tells her the sunset is beautiful but the dark clouds that will surely come with the night promise heavy rain tomorrow. He is quiet for a few seconds, then he recalls one of those precious secrets.

“I wonder if the rain will be anything like it was that day,” he murmurs, speaking of the time he had stayed with her throughout a stormy night. He had found her huddled at the base of a tree, on a root beneath large leaves that had sprouted from the moss. She had not bothered to smile, knowing he must have been upset with her, but she did not resist when he sat beside her and pulled her close using one arm. He stayed with her until morning, and never told her he had been the one to warm her, not the rising sun.

She is not really listening to what he has to say, too busy watching the dying sunlight glitter off the veins of his wings.

“What do you think?” He asks, turning in the slightest to peer over his shoulder at her, seated comfortably on a sunflower leaf.

Her eyes are drawn away from his wings and to his eyes. They sparkle brightly in that strange way they always seem to do.

“What?” She asks, clearing her throat, playing her hands across the hem of her silver skirt. Her frosted wings flap behind her in an almost furious manner, and if he asks she will tell him it is to keep her balance because he has startled her. Truthfully, it is because she cannot help but feel like the world tilts at odd angles whenever he looks at her in such a way and it is hard to control the reflex to stay aloft.

His lips curve a little and he rolls his eyes. “The sunset,” he says, finishing what he was saying before she derailed his train of thought, “it's beautiful, isn't it?”

“Oh. Yes,” she says quietly.

He returns his gaze to the sun's slow but steady descent.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, but she still is not looking at the sun.