writetomyheart | [TEAM ONE]

Sora/Vanitas, 900~ words, rated T. cw// abuse, recovery, PTSD

“Shall we continue?”

Vanitas glared up at him through the gap of his arms shielding his head, shaky breaths simultaneously hot and cold on the exposed wounds littering his legs and forearms. The master stood impassively at a distance, observing his recovery time. Even though every muscle and nerve protested, Vanitas swallowed hard and forced himself to stand. There was always a plateau at some point, when the pain was excruciating but he still moved, and it felt as if he’d backed away from himself.

One step, two, three, a half a dozen paces, silver strings attached to every limb and joint. And he moved, aches and fears feeble across the distance. Up, he thought, refusing to push off his knees for additional assistance, up you piece of shit. Get up!

He swayed on his feet, but he was standing. He lifted his chin, swallowing around the scalding suffocating tightness in his throat and how his jaw ached. Today would not be a failure. Today, he would move forward. He lifted his keyblade, heavy as a gravestone in his grasp, and readied himself without a word.

The same gold as his own eyes shot towards him and a giddy, delirious moment, he remembered the way the sun could blind him when he stared at its epicenter long enough.

His eyes rolled back and he fell.

He tasted dirt on his tongue, and he coughed and spat, too weak to get on his elbows. He pulled himself forward enough so that he wasn’t facedown in the dirt, nose just shy of rubbing against the ground. Then he retched, back rolling and stomach leaping up and he scrabbled against the floor, pleading for it to pass quickly, for his body to still and the engorged pit in his stomach to be emptied.

Red eyes blinked back at him as tears rolled down his cheeks.

He woke up, wetness at the corners of his eyes trickling down the sides of his face as he stared at the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the off-white plaster, familiar and safe, or acknowledge the heavy blankets layered on him, a corner burnt when he’d practiced his magic too close. He turned on his side, finding the pliant body stretched there and shoved his cold nose in the crook of Sora’s shoulder. He dug his hand into Sora’s shirt, tight enough that his nails bit into his own palm through the cloth, and shook Sora hard.

Sora’s deep and even breaths stuttered into waking, and he moved sleep-slow and clumsy, rubbing his calloused palm up the back of Vanitas’ sleeping shirt to sweep with rough tenderness into his hair. “Vanitas?” Sora croaked.

He shook his head, careful to not disturb the hand cradling him. He was trembling, cold despite the three blankets on top of them. There was a strange absence of sound, and even though Vanitas had yet to glance out the windows, he somehow knew it was snowing. He’d only seen the snow once before, in the land with the out-of-season winter and princesses. He pressed against Sora, as close as he could get and then closer still, straining his ears for any noise beyond his frantic breathing and Sora’s calm, even sigh.

“It’s okay,” Sora whispered, and that made Vanitas shake harder. Sora curved towards him, tucking Vanitas in closer as his heavy-handed pets became practiced and smooth. He scratched his nails against Vanitas’ scalp the way he knew he liked, and Vanitas melted.

“Take me outside,” Vanitas whispered. The comfort of the bed and the blankets and Sora’s sleep-smell was too much, frightening.

He couldn’t see Sora’s frown but he heard the confusion in his voice. “Alright,” Sora said, sitting up slowly and bringing Vanitas with him. The covers pooled around their waist and the sudden exposure to chilly air made Vanitas’ body wrack with shivers. Sora reached for the foot of the bed where his fluffy robe was and pulled it on, and then tugged on the covers until they were tucked around Vanitas’ shoulders again.

With gentle encouragement and tiny tugs, Sora got Vanitas to the edge of the bed where he found socks and boots to slip onto his feet, and then he pulled Vanitas to stand, ensuring the blanket covered him from head to toe. After carelessly shoving his own bare feet into a pair of shoes, Sora guided him by the hand to the closest exit in the castle.

The whole world was asleep, silent as the dead of night even as the sun crept past the horizon with clinical detachment. Through the windows, light broke the apart the shadows in intervals, long rectangles that Sora pulled him through. The long hallway stretched black and pale blue with the dawn, all definition lost and blurred. The door at the end rushed to meet them like the ground in a freefall, red wood with iron attachments swinging open as Sora’s touch to bathe them in white.

More tears coated his face, freezing where it was wet, and he stumbled clumsily from the doorstep to the snow-coated ground. He stood there and turned his face to the cloud covered sky, sighing as snow touched upon his hot cheeks.

The world was gray and white and pale pink and he didn’t care if Sora saw him cry. There was only the endless snow and the quiet, and his heart calmed suddenly.

He didn’t mind if this turned out to only be a dream, too.