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The hallway is still, quiet, with the exception of the white noise of the air conditioning and a few various electronics humming in the walls. They're always louder at night, amplified by the silence of the otherwise loud monastery. The other exception is the shift of the floorboards beneath him, a response to his feet pressing against the cold floor, which are still aching despite his thin socks cushioning his steps.
It's one of those nights where there's no real reason for Arin to be awake. He's just… there. After an hour of him laying in bed, he'd given up and decided that he'll try to do something — anything — else for a little while before crawling back into bed. It's not a flawless method, but… it's worked before.
Most of the rooms in the monastery are dark, lights off with no one occupying them, so when Arin passes the living room and sees the lamp beside the couch on and glowing with an orange light, it catches his eye immediately. He pauses, lingers by the doorframe. Out, looking in.
Her hair is visible, peeking out from behind the couch, her head tilted low. Arin watches it bob slightly, the light catching on the few rustled strands of hair as fabric rustles, and then he hears a soft laugh. It's more of an exhale, really, but he knows that sound. Deep in his chest, he knows that sound.
Looking into this room feels like Arin's been teleported somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Like he's holding up a snowglobe to his eye and watching it shimmer, blind to the rest of the world. A little memory that's lost some of the edges but kept its core, and despite losing its shape it's still warm when he holds it. It feels like nowhere else exists. It's just… her.
It's so perfect he wants to cry.
And he's… so scared to want it this badly.
It's the turning of the page that stirs Arin into action. He shifts his feet against the floorboards and again, they creak in answer. Or… maybe not an answer. Maybe just an echo.
For a second Arin's worried about what's going to happen when he gets closer. He's worried that when the angle shifts she'll suddenly disappear — revealed to be a trick of the light, a silhouette of comfort conjured by his own sleep deprived mind, dazed and stuck in a half-dream.
But he makes it to the couch without her disappearing, and Arin's mom looks up when he approaches.
"Arin," She greets, lowering her book. "What are you still doing up? It's so late."
Arin looks at her, tries to say something, but… no excuses come to mind. He just shrugs. "I dunno." He says, finally, but his voice is quieter than it means to be.
She hums, waits a second like she's expecting him to continue, and then frowns when he doesn't. Then she pats at the cushion beside her, looking up at him expectantly. The warm light of the lamp catches on her side, coating her in a soft and loved warmth. It catches a bit on her wedding ring, and he watches it glimmer as she lowers her book half an inch lower, paying more attention to Arin than the book in her hands.
He takes her up on her offer, sitting beside her. As he moves to do so, she puts down her book on the small table beside the couch. Then she lifts her arm, inviting Arin to cuddle up beside her. It's picture perfect.
Arin hesitates.
Can he have this? Is he allowed? Can he really, truly, have this?
He wouldn't think twice about it if it was several years ago. If it was even just a few months ago. If it was a bright day where Arin got to sleep easy — if it was just earlier today he could do it, because it was all happy and smiles and none of his fears were haunting his steps. But right now, he's riddled with them, and exhaustion is blurring the line between what he can and can't do. What he is and isn't allowed to have.
But his mom just waits, patient, leaving her arms open for him, and Arin eventually slumps to lean into her. She's warm and soft and Arin can smell the fresh laundry detergent on her clothes and the faintest hint of the book she was just reading. Arin doesn't quite fit like he used to, but that's okay. He blinks slowly, one of those long blinks where his eyes feel heavier than they should be.
"You seem tired, sweetie."
"Mhm."
He's glad that his mom is comfortable here, at least. Both her and his dad have gotten pretty used to living here while Arin's been gone. Frohickey presumably gave them the tour, showed them the ins and outs of living in the Monastery, at the top of a high mountain, with a bunch of Ninja for housemates. Arin used to wander the halls and imagine what it would be like to give them that tour, to show off his room and go and these are the posters I took from my old home in the Crossroads and this is where I train every morning.
But Arin wasn't there to give them it. Just another thing that Arin missed, busy being dragged off into another adventure.
Time was weird in the Land of Lee, apparently. Because of the night and day cycle being completely up to Lee himself(s?) to decide what time it was, things got funky. His mom and dad adjusted to the off days eventually, but adjusting back to a more normal cycle was… weird. Like jet lag, his dad told him, laughing, and asked if Arin ever got that on his days flying on the bounty. Arin laughed in return and said that it wasn't quite a plane, but he got the feeling. His dad ended up adjusting to a standard schedule, while his mom… didn't. Though Arin's not sure if that's got anything to do with the Land of Lee or just her own habit of staying up late.
"Can't get to bed?"
"Not really."
His mom hums. "Is there something keeping you up?" She asks, gently.
Arin's had this conversation many times before. With Lloyd, with Sora, even with his own parents — however many years ago that must've been. With Sora and Lloyd, it was easy. He could just say that he was worrying and missing his parents so much that he felt restless. It was an easy thing to point at and confidently blame for his insomnia. Before then, before the Merge, well… he could answer with anything at all and it would be alright.
He thinks of when he woke up once and couldn't get back to sleep, shaking his dad awake at four in the morning because he didn't know what else to do. Looking back, it's surprising that he wasn't scolded. Or, maybe it's even more surprising that being scolded wasn't even a possibility in his head. There wasn't a single doubt in his mind that his parents would understand and that they would be there for him, just like they always were, no matter the hour.
His dad put on a documentary that night. Arin's not sure how awake he was, but he knows that they sat in the living room until Arin fell asleep on the couch, distantly watching the sun slowly begin to shine through the curtains. His dad put a blanket on him, went off to work, and that was that. Arin doesn't remember what documentary it might've been, but he remembers his dad's this is a good one and the light of the TV shining bright in the otherwise dark and quiet house. Arin doesn't know what was keeping him up then. He hardly knows what's keeping him up now.
(Maybe things haven't changed at all. Or… maybe they've changed so much that they've looped right back in on themselves.)
But it's harder now. Because Arin needs to say something to answer her, and yet he's… still clueless.
"I don't know." He admits, finally. "Maybe everything."
"Well," His mom says, simply, easily, "Nothing we can do about that then, hm? Do you want to stay with me for a little while?"
Arin nods against her, curling himself in a little bit more. He ignores how it strains the bandages on his arm and back. He always makes them a little bit too tight or too loose, and it seems like he's made them too tight again. Lloyd had offered to do the wraps for him, but Arin refused. I don't need your help, I've survived this long without you, he wanted to say, because it was easier to say that than please don't look at what's happened to me. He didn't say either, obviously. He just smiled and shook his head, and said, lightly, I've gotta get my practice in one way or another, don't I?
So Arin wrapped his bandages too tight again.
"I'm sorry if I'm…" Arin begins, a bit impulsively, and immediately shrinks back in regret once the first few words tumble out. "…If I'm not who you wanted me to be."
He feels his mom turn her head towards him. "What makes you say that, Arin?" She asks, but there's some urgency in her voice.
"I don't know." Arin tries to speak, but his throat won't form the words. Not like it's tight or like he's choking on all his swirling thoughts and feelings, trying to juggle a million things at once and failing to catch anything — but just like it's sluggish. Tired. It's not a failed juggling act because Arin can't even get his arms to move. "I just… know that I've changed. And not all in good ways. I—I don't know if you, um, thought about how I might grow up or what I might be like while we were separated, but I doubt that this is what you imagined."
She sighs. "Oh, honey, we—" Her voice breaks, just a bit, before it stabilizes. "We thought we lost you, dear. We never gave up hope that you'd show up, but oh, we were worried sick." She says, and sighs again. She's quiet for a second, and then shifts, giving Arin a quick squeeze. "I've never been more relieved to learn that you were alright. That's all we wanted. We just wanted to know that our baby was alive. The only thing that I regret about who you are now is that we weren't there for you."
Arin's quiet, trying to resist the tears stinging behind his eyes. He takes a deep breath in before speaking. "I thought I lost you too." He whispers. "When I—When I found those graves, I—" He stops himself. Swallows. "I'm just glad you're okay."
"Me too, honey. I'm glad we're all safe."
They sit in silence for a minute before Arin starts to shift, and his mom immediately shuffles back. "Is this comfortable for you? Do you want to lean against my arm or do you want to be over it?"
"Oh, no, here is fine, let me just—" Arin straightens, rolling his shoulder a bit, and then returns to his position more carefully. "It's just these, um, bandages, you know? Restricts my movement a little. Hurts when they're being tugged."
She hums, frowning, and lets Arin find his comfortable spot before settling in herself. "…Do you want me to kiss it better?" She asks, and Arin huffs from her side.
"I don't think that'll work anymore, Mom." Arin protests, weakly.
"Well, will you let me try?"
"…Hm." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It's quick to fall, but it's nice that it was there. He shuffles in a little closer.
For a second, Arin thinks that his mom is going to move to grab her book again, and, suddenly, Arin will find that time travel does exist. Arin will suddenly fit perfectly at her side, small and curled up like he always used to be, and use her as his own personal pillow while she plays an awkward dance with her book — trying to keep it upright with one hand so her other can be wrapped around Arin and rubbing circles into his shoulder. Arin will be jostled as she tries to flip the page, making some soft noise of complaint, and his mom will kiss his forehead and he'll be content again. He'll ask about what she's reading at some point, and she'll speak softly of what's going on and read a paragraph or two. During this, Arin will, inevitably, drift off, and he'll hear her soft voice cut through the haze of dreams saying gently — Arin, dear, you seem tired. How about I tuck you in?
Then he'll have to use the step stool to reach the mugs again, he'll sit by all the vents with a blanket to trap all their warmth without a care in the world and call it his favorite thing, and look outside and believe that it's a kind world still.
That doesn't happen because she doesn't reach for her book.
She just lets him stay, and they're both present and stuck in this moment together. It wouldn't be a bad place to be if this really were an isolated moment in time. If tonight was the only night, if there weren't any sleepless nights like this one waiting or dreaded groggy mornings that always come after. If this moment was always then it would be okay. But the present is only the present until it's suddenly the past, distant, unreachable, and lost forever to time.
She notices the tears, because of course, Mom always notices, and she places her hand in his hair, gently combing through his curls.
"I'm sorry, Mom." Arin whispers.
His mom hums softly in acknowledgement. "Whatever for, dear?"
"…I don't know." He replies. "Everything, I think. I'm just… really sorry for everything."
"I don't think anything is your fault, Arin." She gently counters, her fingertips soft as they briefly grace his forehead. Featherlight love. "I'm sorry that you feel like it."
Tears keep coming, and a sob jolts through his chest, up his throat, and he lets out a pained punched-out whimper. It's stifled, as stifled as it could've been, and he tries to hold himself together to not make any more sounds like it. He's tired of making other people hear them.
Here is… a weird place to be. This part is vulnerable, but not in a way that makes him worried about being judged. An odd mixture of comfort, because here, in his mom's arms, he feels like maybe he's back in a little room in a home made of love just for him. Just him and his mom and his dad who's asleep in the next room over, and there's nothing that's going to hurt him because this moment, this home, doesn't know harm. And this home doesn't even exist in words, it only exists in the pictures that are still hung up on the fridge, in the family photos on the wall and the big blankets on his mom and dad's bed that he sometimes got to help make in the mornings. This is a home that Arin hasn't been in for a long, long time. Maybe he's not even in it. Maybe he's outside, peeking through all the windows. Out, looking in.
"I'm just…" Arin tries to begin, but the words can't come to him.
Because if this — if this home, this moment, if it's only comforting, if it's only made of love, then where do all of Arin's fears go? Will his mom still be able to carry them? She was by his side on the bathroom floor when he was feverish and throwing up all night long that time he got seriously sick, she bandaged and kissed all the scrapes he got from the kids down the street, but… he's older now, and no matter how small he makes himself, he still doesn't fit in her arms like he used to.
(And he's spilled more blood since then.)
"…I don't know."
"Take your time." She reassures, gentle, like she isn't scared of whatever Arin has to offer. He sobs again, but it's silent this time.
What is he even supposed to tell her? Could Arin really tell her about anything that he's been dealing with since they've been gone? Could he even tell her about the past few weeks?
His finger twitches and it causes pain to flare down his arm, alighting each of his wounds in newfound recognition. He winces, briefly, and his mother settles the weight of her arm on his back.
"You've gotten so hurt, honey." She whispers, and Arin can hear the frown on her face, can hear that little tremble of concern in her throat.
He's not really sure what to say to that, and he's… not even sure if he wants her to follow up on it. On one hand, he does. He wants her to ask how so badly that it hurts. He wants her to ask and for him to be able to tell her everything. He wants to show her each of his scars and bruises — even the ones that he's not letting Sora see — and poke at them and say it hurts when I do that. Don't you see? It hurts, Mom. Don't you see how purple that bruise on my side is? Do you see how deep that scar goes? Look, Mom. Please, look.
But on the other hand… then what? What will happen when his mom has to call his dad in, and they both look at Arin together to try and figure out the best way to carry it all, all the beatings he's taken and the heaviness he drags with him, and then find out that there's nowhere to put any of it? Nowhere to put him?
Arin swallows. Warm spit down a scratchy throat.
So Arin doesn't point at his side and tell her that the bruising has been consistent there for a year now because Arin practices his Spinjtizu by throwing himself at walls and pillars and rocks until he can't manage the pain anymore. He doesn't roll up his sleeve and remove his bandages and show Ras's claws dug into his arm from when Arin got too comfortable with disagreeing with him and never made that mistake again. He doesn't shine a flashlight on the joining small slashes across his skin and he doesn't tell her that it itches and it hurts, and I did those myself because I was hurting so much. It didn't help and my hands were shaking the whole time. That's why they're so jagged, see? It's because I couldn't hold steady. See, Mom? See?
"I know." Is what he says instead, quiet. He wants the words to be small, small enough to be carried off in the breeze of his mothers breath and her weightless fingertips against his skin — but it's still too heavy. Helpless and heavy. Burdening. "I think I'm gonna be light on training for a little while." He whispers.
He doesn't tell her that it's because Zane told him that he needed to rest for a week at least. He doesn't say that he could work through the pain if he needed because he hears Ras's voice instead of Lloyd's when he runs through his combos. And he doesn't say that Ras wasn't that bad because when he said that to Frak, hoping that he would, at least, understand, Frak told him that well, yeah, maybe not to me, but I didn't come back with a black eye and scars thinking my parents were dead, dude.
His mother half-laughs, a sound that Arin is reminded means more to him than he thought something ever could. "That means you get to spend more time with your father and I." She says. "Your friends have spoken a lot about some of your pies, and you bet that your dad and I will be needing to taste them all." She pauses, sighs, and moves her hand to Arin's hair again. "A slice of pie, a cup of tea, and perhaps a new, good book. Sounds like a perfect day. You know, I'd love to see what some of the libraries look like now."
"I haven't really been to any." Arin admits. "But I'm sure you could ask Lloyd about that. He's got a lot of books from different realms since The Merge. And you could also visit Cloud Kingdom, though… that's all destiny scrolls and history and stuff. Nothing like the libraries we had back in Ninjago."
"I suppose I'll have to ask, then." His mom says. "Maybe you'd like to come with me if I find a good library?"
Arin hums, feeling the vibration of it in his throat. "Maybe." He says. "I dunno right now. I feel like I can't… really make plans for anything. I just wanna lay down and sleep for like, a month."
"You really do seem tired."
"…I am."
"Do you want me to try and tuck you into bed now?"
Arin wants to shake his head, but… he's too tired for that right now. He feels the rise and fall of his mothers chest, and wonders, suddenly, if he's subconsciously matched it with his own. "I can't sleep." He says. "I'll… I'll get to it eventually, but I can't… I just can't right now."
His mom nods, hums, and then kisses his forehead. "Okay." She says. "Well, you can stay with me for as long as you'd like. You could even sleep here if you want."
"Okay." He whispers. "Thank you, Mom."
"Of course, sweetie."
They're silent for another few seconds until his mom is shuffling, reaching forward and grabbing a blanket off of an adjacent chair. She fiddles with it for a second, trying her hardest to not jostle Arin, until she manages to spread it out and lay it overtop the two of them. Well, Arin, mainly. She doesn't say anything about it. Arin doesn't either. He just closes his eyes and lets himself rest. Then it feels like he's sinking into the couch, into the warmth of her body and the softness of the cushion, just going down, down, down. It's… comforting.
His mom grabs her book, and he falls asleep to the sound of pages turning.