Archive of Our Own ^beta

From the moment Reki pulled her from her shell, there has been an ache in Rakka’s chest. A longing she can’t put a name to; a little hole in her heart that feeds on every act of kindness she’s been shown. Sometimes, it leads her to the corners of the house that no one ever seems to find, where she can wait it out alone.

Tonight, it led her to Reki's room.

Old Home sighs itself to sleep. The faint creak of the weathervane through the patched roof, the wind brushing the treetops like fingers carding through tresses of hair, and the settling of weathered boards forms a constant, quiet murmur.

Reki still smells like smoke, ever so faintly. Rakka doesn't mind. Her hair isn't as silky to the touch as Rakka always thought it would be, but she doesn’t mind that, either.

Being this close to Reki feels... strange. not wrong, or forbidden, simply a thing that doesn't happen. Reki is always kind to her, even affectionate. She ruffles Rakka's hair, or slings an arm around her with a grin, just like she does with any of the other haibane.

This feels different. Laying next to her, an arm draped over her, her face nestled into her shoulder… it’s intimate in a way that Rakka would shy away from, if it were anyone else.

"If you're that cold, just come here," she had said, after Rakka, sitting on the side of Reki’s bed, had pulled her nightclothes tighter around herself in an effort to stay warm. Rakka just looked at her, unsure, until Reki had pulled the covers aside and shifted over, making room for two.

Rakka isn't cold anymore. She shivers anyways, goosebumps trailing down her spine as blunt nails scratch idly at her scalp. Reki is warm against her, the arm curled around her shoulders warmer still, and when Rakka dares to pull in a little closer, pressing herself flush against Reki's side, her senior haibane says nothing.

It feels like a dream, she thinks. Not a dream of flying, or her dream of falling, but a dream where the world is changed, strange and new and yet familiar, as if it was always meant to be this way. The kind of dream where anything could happen.

Maybe that's why she does it.

As the stub of a candle burns low, casting long shadows on the wall, Rakka lifts her head to find Reki looking down at her.

Their faces are only inches apart. Reki is unreadable, the candlelight playing off her eyes offering no insight. Still, she doesn't look away, and as her chest rises just a bit more with the next breath she takes, Rakka swears she can feel the slightest tremble beneath her.

She's never thought about kissing Reki before.

But in this state of dreamlike clarity, she’s suddenly certain that’s why she’s here, in Reki's bed. She can feel it in the air, in the distance between them closing, in the way that the ache now feels like a hook, a line pulling her closer, closer.

"Reki…"

She doesn't even get to ask. As soon as she speaks, something in Reki's eyes shifts, closing off, and Rakka can tell that she knows. The dream breaks, the arm around her tenses, and the warmth in rakka’s chest disappears, leaving just the ache behind.

"We should get some sleep."

That's all Reki says as she gently pushes Rakka’s arm off of her. The rejection is kind, in the way that Reki has always been kind to her. somehow, that hurts more. She gets out of bed to blow out the candle, and when she returns, slipping under the covers, she makes no attempt to close the gap between them.

She doesn’t even ask her to leave. With a final “goodnight, Rakka”, Reki turns over, facing the door, and settles down to sleep.

In the dark, with Reki laying next to her, Rakka has never felt more alone.

A hollow feeling spreads out from her chest, creeping through her body like frost over a fallow field. She wants to disappear into herself, to forget that beautiful, shining moment where it all made sense. Only the awareness that Reki is there keeps her silent, even as tears sting at the corners of her eyes. She holds herself tight, takes quiet, shallow breaths, and waits.

She doesn't know how long she spends there, silent in the darkness. Eventually, her heart slows. her thoughts grow sluggish and incoherent, exhaustion finally winning out over self-pity.

Then, just as sleep is about to take her, the bed creaks. Blankets shift, a sliver of cool air slipping under the covers and pulling Rakka back from the edge of slumber as Reki first stirs, then turns over. The moment stretches, seconds pulled thin, before a whisper cuts through the silence.

“Rakka?”

Rakka’s eyes nearly flutter open, but something stops her. She doesn’t know what she’d say to Reki—whether to apologize, or to try to explain what came over her. She doesn’t know if she can explain it to herself, so instead, she lays there, hoping that the guilty pounding of her heart won’t give her away.

A sigh, low and worn. It catches Rakka in the chest—Reki sounds so tired. Quiet blankets the room again, but the sound echoes in her mind. She tries to imagine what Reki might be doing: looking out the window, maybe, the creases under her eyes smoothing out as she prepares to settle down to sleep, or—

She hears the rustle of fabric, then feels the weight shift on the old mattress.

Soft lips press against the corner of Rakka’s mouth.

The kiss is gentle, achingly so, and Rakka is frozen, too stunned to even breathe. Longing grips her like a vise; she wants so badly to open her eyes, to tell Reki that she wants this, too.

Then it’s over. A second, nothing more. Reki pulls away, leaving her with the memory of warmth and her heart in her throat. She waits, and hopes: for Reki to kiss her again, to pull her in and chase away the ache for good.

Instead, she hears a whisper, dull and hoarse.

“I'm sorry.”

The spark of hope that had been building in Rakka’s chest flickers out.

This—whatever it was—wasn’t meant for her. Not really. When Reki lays back down, pulling the covers over them once more, she’s no closer than before. And when Rakka dares to open her eyes, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, all she sees is Reki's back.

It’s a long time before Rakka falls asleep.