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The chest was always dark.
Not the type of dark that comforted you. It was the type of dark that felt oppressive, making it hard to breathe. A claustrophobic dark.
The first few times he had been shoved in there, unceremoniously, by the animator, he fought back. He kicked and screamed and clawed at the top, anything to get out. He would do this for hours, trying anything he could think of to escape. Of course, nothing he did ever worked, and he would end up with nothing but a lost voice and bruises on his knuckles.
Eventually he got used to the repetitive pattern of life. He was to be in the box until he was needed, in which he would be dumped on the ground, in a way that always took the wind out of his lungs and left him gasping for air.
Then he would spend most of his day resigned, bending to the will of his creator to be an adblock. On the good days, he would be able to sit against the wall of the browser, a position that didn’t leave his back aching. On the bad days he was dumped just out of reach and would simply lay on the ground. Occasionally, when the animator was distracted by something in their world, he would stand and wander as far as he could (he had learned the hard way that it hurt going too far, when the chain around his ankle would yank him back. He didn’t move as confident, now) around the computer.
But once the animator was done with him, he would return to the chest, and trapped in the darkness again. It was a cycle, and days slipped into weeks slipped into months slipped into what felt like years.
And in those long periods in-between There and Here, he would sleep. He would dream of being free, of being able to run and jump and move knowing that he wasn’t chained by anything. He would dream of revenge, of fighting against his creator and winning this time, of shoving his creator in the prison he made and showing him just what it felt like to be trapped.
And what came after, with his freedom and his revenge and his escape, felt like another one of his dreams, all packaged neatly with a bow on top.
Even now, as Chosen lays awake in that darkness, he feels trapped in that box once more.
He tilts his head, facing the window in his room, moonlight creeping in and illuminating what it could. Right. He wasn’t in that box (it felt like he was), what he felt now was a result of a nightmare (or perhaps he was dreaming right now, and the rug was to be swept from underneath him).
Slowly, delicately, he sits up (he couldn’t quite sit up in the box, lest he hit his head) and pulls back the covers. No ball and chain, the feeling was all in his head.
Chosen has to sit for a moment more, reaching a hand to feel where the shackle was, scar tissue the only reminder of what once was. He sighs, hanging his head. He wasn’t tired now, if he went back to sleep he knows he would just fall into remembering again.
And thus, he stands. It’s a slow movement, feeling around in the dark for the door. Left foot first, in case he went too far from the chain…
No, it wasn’t there anymore.
(Yes, it was, supplies an unhelpful part of his brain, the part he hates the most)
Left foot first. Right foot next. A shuffle, little progress being made. The door handle, smooth metal, is cool underneath Chosen’s palm. He spends a moment debating if he really wants to go out there. Will he be in his house, tucked away in some quiet part of the outernet? Or will it open up and he’ll fall into the darkness, back into the chest.
He has to gather the confidence (confidence he lost years ago, or maybe he never had it to begin with) to go through with opening the door, and he finally exhales as he’s greeted with the hallway wall.
It’s six steps, but feels like much more, until he’s at Dark’s door. He had meant to go sit in the kitchen, originally, but his feet seemed to have a mind of its own. Light shines from underneath, Dark must still be awake. How late was it anyways?
(Chosen’s internal clock has never been right, since being freed. It’s something he’s never been able to fix)
It’s a fight in his mind if he should go in. Dark’s told him a million times over he’s allowed in on what he’s called Chosen’s “bad nights” (Chosen hates calling it that, hates feeling the need to be around someone else in order to feel at least somewhat normal).
And Chosen’s taken him up on it before, but every time he feels like it’s going to be the time Dark finally rejects him, tells him to handle it on his own.
The door creaks as it opens, and Chosen sees Dark, in his bed instead of at his desk for once. He’s reading, but closes the book and places it on his nightstand before giving his full attention to Chosen.
“One of those nights?”
Chosen doesn’t reply, he knows he doesn’t need to. Instead he shuffles in, left foot over right, and Dark sighs at him. It’s a sad sigh, not an exasperated one, he has to remind himself.
He crawls, slowly, carefully, under the covers, curling up and making himself as small as possible, taking up the least amount of space in case Dark gets annoyed (he never has, or at least he tells Chosen he never has).
He can feel Dark place a hand on top of his head, comforting and grounding.
“I’ll go to bed in a bit, alright?” Dark asks, voice gentle. It’s the one he reserves for the night, not the loud, over-confident voice he uses during the day.
He hums in return, exhaustion he thought he had lost in waking up returning in full swing, and he yawns. He feels better, feels the ball and chain dissipating into memory once more, closes his eyes and the darkness feels right, doesn’t leave him dizzy and disoriented.
And Chosen sleeps peacefully, now, underneath a comfortable blanket and next to his own version of family. The darkness is now not the oppressive one he once knew, but returns back to the comforting one he’s grown fond of.