He was briefly taken aback. Even his own small mind found the need to marvel at the grace, the power of the limbs that held her up. She raised a hand to tuck the pelt back up, her movement more fluid than his, body swaying gently as she adjusted herself. Her own shirt, tucked neatly into those oilskin trousers, failed to expose even the slightest slice of skin, and so it was with some disappointment that he let himself tilt sideways and back on his feet.

He couldn't back down from a challenge like that, and yet, he was frustratedly aware of the limits of his body in comparison to hers: he would have to work on his flexibility in the future.

"Whatever, it's too hot anyway, let's just walk," he declared, his tone imperious and yet still, somehow, close to compromise. (At least, in his own private beliefs.) He watched her, head tilted.

"Don't those clothes bug you this time of year?"

--said the boy whose pants rode low and shirt rode high, showing the pale edge of hipbones.