Work Text:
Sora hears the generator shut down before she processes what’s happening.
One second, she’s sitting on the floor of her room, tinkering with a project she’s been working on for days — she prefers to do things the old-fashioned way when it comes to hobby projects like this rather than using her elemental powers — the next, she’s blinking in shock, eyes adjusting to the dark.
Sora hates the dark.
She stops breathing like she’s forgotten how, chest tightening as she realises what’s happened. The pitch black presses in on her, making the walls appear like they’re getting closer and closer, suffocating her.
She hated the dark when she was seven, sobbing into her blanket, hoping maybe her mom would hear her and come ask if she was okay. She hated the dark when she was eleven, starving, dragging her feet through the desert, the cold biting her like karma for running away in the first place.
And she hates it now. Sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by monastery walls stuffed full of people who love her, she still can’t shake the fear that overtakes her the second the power fails.
Sora’s stomach twists at the idea of waking anyone. She’s always hated asking for help. Usually, she’d go knock on Arin’s door right now, reassured by the knowledge that Arin has comforted her through everything, from bad dreams in the dead of night to panic attacks that hit in the middle of the day.
Realistically, she could pad through the uncomfortably quiet hallway right now, and with just a few taps on Arin’s door, be comforted by a soft voice and warm hug. But she can’t. After everything, asking Arin for help feels selfish now. Almost fake. Like she’s taking from someone she’s already stolen everything from. Logically, she knows that it was The Merge that took Arin’s parents from him, not her, but Sora’s conscience has never relied much on logic.
She knows they’re fine now, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she took something from him when he chose her over his parents in The Underworld, and she can’t shake it now, barely able to breathe in the dark.
Sora curls into a tight ball, knees pressed to her chest, and tells herself she’s fine. She’s sixteen. She’s gone up against dictators and ancient evils. Surely the “greatest elemental master in The Merged Lands” can handle a few hours without light.
Soft footsteps pull Sora from her thoughts. Footsteps she’s become all too familiar with over the span of six long years. A tentative knock on her door fills her with dread and relief simultaneously, as does the voice from the other end.
“Sora?” Arin calls, “I’m coming in.”
A crack in the door reveals the shine of a flashlight accompanied by the familiar shape of Sora’s best friend. The bright light catches on her cold, trembling frame, exposing her in a way that makes her stomach twist.
Arin’s voice immediately drops to something low and gentle. “Hey, you okay?”
Sora opens her mouth to speak — claim she’s fine and tell Arin to go back to bed — but her throat tightens, voice betraying her, and the words won’t come.
He seems to understand despite her silence, setting the flashlight aside slowly and lowering himself down beside her on the floor. He hesitates before wrapping a solid, warm arm around her shoulders, and Sora leans into the touch more than she’d like to admit. The wind whistles outside her window, and the room is silent in the way she’s always hated. Like there’s too much to say but neither have the words to say it.
“It’s just the generator,” Arin murmurs after a few seconds. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
The reassurance only floods her with shame all over again, because he’s right. It is just the generator, she should be okay, but, for whatever pathetic reason, she’s not. She’s not sure she knows how to be okay when it’s this dark.
Finally, she musters up the courage to say anything at all. “I’m fine,” she croaks, sounding about as not-fine as she possibly could.
Arin sighs and shakes his head. “You’re not, Sora. You’re shaking.”
Sora flinches like she’s been caught doing something wrong. He catches it and pulls her in tighter, so her cheek is squished against his shoulder. “You hate the dark,” he says, plainly. “I remember once, when we were thirteen, the power was out everywhere in The Crossroads. You clung to me like a koala all night. It was the middle of summer, and we were both sweating like crazy, but I didn’t mind.”
Sora laughs a little at the thought. She remembers being caked in sweat, blankets kicked off, and yet unwilling to untangle herself from Arin’s hold.
“Anyway,” he continues, “point is, I didn’t mind then, and I don’t mind now. If… If you need me.” He says the last part like he’s not quite sure it’s true.
Sora’s mouth moves before her head has time to catch up. “I’ll always need you,” and, despite the tremble in her voice, she’s never sounded so sure of anything. Arin’s nervous smile shifts into a real one, illuminated by only the flashlight beside him. She’s always been able to tell the difference.
The silence isn’t so scary anymore, especially not with Arin’s steady breathing and the feeling of his thumb rubbing her shoulder back and forth. He squeezes her just a little every time her breathing catches.
Eventually, his eyes begin to droop. Arin’s never been a night owl, always opting to fall asleep at ten and wake up at the crack of down — something Sora will never understand. She gestures toward her bed, a king single with a fluffy doona and at least three furry blankets, and nudges him gently.
“D’you wanna..?” She trails off, but Arin fills in the blanks, nodding sleepily with an obnoxiously loud yawn — one that makes Sora laugh under her breath and Arin grumble in mock offence.
He crawls in first, clearly exhausted, which makes Sora feel more than a little guilty. But when he opens his arms, she melts into them like she’s been waiting all night, resting her cheek on his chest and tangling his legs with her own, breathing a long sigh of relief. He rubs her back rhythmically in return, pressing a familial kiss to the crown of her head, something Sora still hasn’t gotten used to over the years, but doesn’t think she could go without ever again.
Noticing the way her shoulders release and relax, he kisses her hair again, and again, and again, until she’s giggling into his chest. He does too, warm laughter swallowed by the pink mess that is her hair.
“S’okay now. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he murmurs. Sora loves moments like this. When it feels like it’s just her, Arin and the penthouse. As greedy as it feels to admit, she’s missed feeling like the centre of his world the way he’s always been to her.
Even before they met, Arin is the kind of person she used to wish on shooting stars for, and she’s sure he never wished for someone like her. Who would?
As if he can read her mind, the next thing that comes from Arin’s mouth is a soft, sleepy “I love you, okay?”
Sora blinks up at him, snuggling just a little closer. “I love you too.”
Arin’s face suddenly shifts into something more stern and serious. He stares down at her, brow furrowed. “No. I love you. Say it back.”
She blinks in confusion for a second, before her brain catches up and she sighs with understanding.
“Arin…”
“Say it.”
“Arin.”
“Sora.”
She deflates in defeat, slumping into his chest dramatically before mumbling something unintelligible.
“What was that?” He teases, “I didn’t quite catch it.”
She grumbles, acting far more annoyed than she really is. If she’s being completely honest, she loves when he does this too. “You love me.”
Arin kisses her forehead in celebration, pulling her in close, pressing little pecks all over the side of her face, trailing up into her hair. “Exactly,” he replies, far too smug. “I love you. Nothing you can do about it.” Then, his face softens, voice steady; “Now go to sleep. I’m here. You’re safe, I promise.”
“M’kay, dork. I love you too.” Sora whispers fondly, leaving a soft kiss on his shoulder, letting her whole body relax and go slack in his arms.
“I love you more.”
“Nuh uh.”
“Yuh huh.”
“Nuh uh.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Fine.”