HETEROSTASIS

It had been only recently that you'd been offered the opportunity to travel to Snezhnaya on a diplomatic trip. Much to Kinich's dismay, you'd leaped at the opportunity, danger and distance be damned.

Despite the unbelievably painful freezing temperatures, you find yourself enthralled by Snezhnaya's natural beauty and landscape. It's a different kind of picturesque, one that you could never find back home. As if to illustrate your point, you sink unsteadily to your knees, gathering snow in your mittens.

"To be surrounding by snow is something you can only experience in Snezhnaya," you say, though your guard does not grace you with a response.

He doesn't seem as interested in sight-seeing as you are. If anything, he seems on edge, eyes narrowed at every turn and a permanent hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

Even with your hands covered, the sensation of molded snow is unfamiliar and slow. Kinich is stopped ahead, inspecting one of the towering trees nearby as if calculating the quickest way to scale it. Before you can stop yourself, you wind up and throw with all your might.

A snowball fight, one of your textbooks had called it. A popular pastime amongst Snezhnayan children.

The ice soars smoothly through the air, sailing past the trees in a perfect arc towards the back of Kinich's head. That'll show him, you think mischievously. He thinks he can laugh at me and get away with it? Well, he has another thing coming—

Kinich takes a single step to the left without so much as flinching, and the snowball explodes against the trunk of the tree in front of him.

You freeze.

You expect him to turn around. You expect him to scold you, or roll his eyes, or tell you to get back on the train so you can continue on toward Snezhnograd. But he doesn't do any of those things—he simply hums, continuing to stare up at the foliage as if nothing had ever happened.

Grumbling, you gather another snowball. This time, Kinich ducks beneath it, whistling.

"Tall tree, this one," he calls over his shoulder. You can practically hear the smile in his voice.

"Kinich," you warn.

At the sound of his name, he finally turns, only to swiftly dodge the next snowball that you launch at him. He looks rather amused at your attempts, even as he walks back toward you.

"Kinich," you whine, the ice beginning to sting at your fingertips. "Let me hit you just once. Please?"

He brushes at the fur on his cloak, raising a brow. "Why should I do that?"

"This is what people do in Snezhnaya! When will I ever get this chance again?"

It's not often that you leave Natlan's borders—in fact, it's almost frustratingly rare. This chance may not come again for another ten years, and that's if you're lucky. As if recognizing your plight, Kinich's expression softens.

You take his sigh of resignation as an invitation.

He doesn't dodge the next snowball that you throw—it hits him squarely in the chest, though it does nothing to hinder his advance toward you. The next one explodes against his shoulder, then the next against his knee. Though you're throwing with all your strength, you'd think that it was a mere breeze that was brushing against him based on his lack of reaction.

You manage to hit him three more times before you're standing face to face, half a snowball gathered between your shaking fingers. Kinich stares down at you, ice gathering at the ends of his dark hair.

"You're cold," he observes quietly.

You suck in a breath when he extends a hand, the heat of his fingers curling over your collarbone. He's fixing your cloak, you realize—somehow, in the heat of your endeavor, the clasp had come undone. Among the freezing wind, he's unnaturally warm, even warmer than the thick fur that he settles over your shoulders.

The snow scatters away from your open hand.

His touch has always been gentle—whether he's tying a loose ribbon on your dress or removing the shoes from your aching feet after a long day, Kinich has never treated you roughly. However, in this moment, you almost wish it didn't feel so intimate.

"I'm not a child," you say with a scoff. It comes out sharper than intended, and you hesitate to correct yourself before Kinich replies—

"You're not, but you are the princess of my nation. And that means it's my responsibility to keep you safe and happy."

He says it so matter-of-factly that you're not quite sure how to react. He's sworn his commitment to protecting you a thousand times over, but it's different to hear him say it at this proximity.

"Happy?" you splutter, hoping to mask your embarrassment. "Since when?"

A smile tugs at Kinich's lip as he finishes adjusting your cloak. "I don't think I'd let just anyone toss ice at me for their personal amusement."

A snowflake lands daintily on his nose—you watch it melt against his skin as your fingers curl white-knuckled into your skirt. Kinich steps past you, saying something about returning to the train, but you find yourself frozen in place for a moment longer.

You've always known you were special to him, but that role was simply decided by your birthright—nothing more, and nothing less. You'd be a fool to convince yourself otherwise.

"Don't tease me," you call out before hesitantly trudging after him.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Kinich pulls the hood of his cloak down, shaking the snow from his hair. He pauses midstep to stretch a hand toward you, then nods back toward the path. "Now come on—next time you fall, I might not wait around for you."

He's unbelievably irritating. And yet, your face blooms with heat when you feel his hand curl tighter against yours.