Neteyam doesn’t know where he stands.

It should be fine—for him, it is. It doesn’t matter that you’re human. He couldn’t care less. That you can’t breathe his air without a mask, or that you don’t belong to the same species. None of it matters. And yet—

There’s a divide. A bridge he can’t cross. An unspoken berth that exists solely as a curse to him.

He looks at you askance as you pick apart your fruit, your brows furrowed far enough to warrant the question.

“What’s wrong?” By dragging out the vowel, he makes it known that he knows full well something is bothering you, and you should know better than to avoid answering. Neteyam nudges you, jerking his chin in question.