After, Mina unselfconsciously squeezes out her hair, lets the heavy gold rope of it fall over her pale shoulder and cover a rosy breast. Water trickles down her bare stomach, and even though Hansel has the feel of her memorized, he looks away.
"Your sister. Gretel," Mina asks gently around her soft accent, her eyes sweet and knowing and curious. There is no judgement in them, when Hansel hazards a glance. It's probably why he answers her.
"Yeah," he says, drying his face on his tunic before pulling it over his head. "I mean, we're not—exclusive. But. Yes."
"I see," she says, her expression never changing. It's why he kisses her goodbye a few minutes later, even though Hansel doesn't see at all.
After, Mina unselfconsciously bleeds out under his hands. She never stops smiling at him. He wonders if that's what love means: smiling at someone while you die. He doesn't know. He probably never will.
Gretel takes her time, bringing it up. They're across the desert with Ben and the honest-to-god troll, and she pulls her brother away while they clumsily set up camp.
They've come to mountain country, sparsely wooded with an open sky. The stars are coming out.
Gretel says, "Should I offer condolences?"
Hansel looks where she's looking. It's all he's ever done. Then he glances edgewise at her face in profile, studies the half-healed cuts on her cheek and lip. "I should have been there."
She looks at him, misunderstanding. "You were."
He swallows, shakes his head. Reaches out and touches a tiny cut under her eye. "I wasn't."
Gretel turns to face him fully then, eyebrows knit together as she studies his face. They're a matched set: twin expressions of concern, puzzling each other out.
Thing about Gretel, she knows Hansel better than anyone alive. He's a tough act, but only if you're new. You stick around long enough, he's an easy push. A man's only a man.
"I wasn't, either," she says, careful and precise.
Thing about Hansel, he could've said no. He almost managed it, but—well. Horseshoes, hand grenades. He knows better.
"I'm sorry she's gone," he says stiffly. "But she couldn't have come with us."
Gretel shakes her head, slips her thin, strong fingers over his palm. Links their hands together, an unbreakable bond that makes Hansel's breath catch. It burns, warm and vital, in the heavy reservoirs of his lungs. "I'm pretty sure that's my line," she tells him.
"Yeah, well," Hansel huffs, pulling their hands together against his chest like he's done since they were children. "There's a lot of carryover, you and me."