Archive of Our Own ^beta

The fire burned low, amber light flickering over sleeping rolls and bowls licked clean. Emma had finally dozed off mid-sentence, voice fading into a soft hum of dreams. Mujika watched her and the rest of the kids with the gentle patience of someone who had seen centuries of nights like this; she sat cross-legged, quiet, as if guarding peace itself.

Ray lingered at the edge of the light of the campfire, back pressed against cold stone. He’d eaten, but the restlessness inside him gnawed like something wild. Freedom, even after all these years, could feel sharp enough to cut.

“Still don’t sleep easily, do you?”

Sonju’s voice came from the dim corridor leading deeper into the cave; low and warm. Ray didn’t startle. He’d felt him there, hovering like some forest-tamed predator that had learned the courtesy of footsteps.

“You noticed,” Ray muttered, trying for annoyance. It landed too soft.

“I always notice you.” Sonju’s hand brushed his arm, light as wind. “Walk with me.”

Ray didn’t argue. Instead, when Sonju nodded toward a quieter alcove, half-curtained by stalactites and shadow, Ray followed. Their footsteps padded softly over dust and stone until the firelight became only a warm memory behind them.

“You still carry too much weight in your shoulders,” he murmured, turning to face him. “You survived the world, but you forgot to learn how to rest in it.”

Ray huffed a breath. “Rest is… complicated.”

“So is hunger,” Sonju said. “Yet we feed it.”

The words hung there like bait, or invitation. Ray felt something old ache inside his chest, something lonely and stubborn as a locked door. Sonju stepped closer, and Ray didn’t back away.

Clawed fingers grazed his jaw. Careful. Reverent, almost. Ray closed his eyes without meaning to; he felt the warmth before the touch fully settled, a thumb sweeping slow along his cheekbone, grounding him.

“You don’t have to starve yourself from softness,” Sonju murmured.

Ray’s breath shuddered. “I’m not… good at this.”

“I know.” Sonju tipped his forehead against Ray’s. “But you want. That’s enough.”

Ray let himself lean in, the way a tired bird might fold into a safe branch. Their lips touched, steady and quiet, like the moment before dawn when light considers breaking. No rush. No taking. Only the slow release of years spent clinging to tension like it was life itself. Sonju’s hand slid to the back of his neck, steady, steady, offering rather than taking.

Ray inhaled sharply against him, fingers curling in the fabric at Sonju’s waist as though anchoring himself to proof he was allowed to feel this. Allowed to be held without owing a piece of himself in return.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t a claim. It was a slow unspooling, a kiss like breathing after nearly drowning.

When they finally parted, Ray kept his forehead against Sonju’s, breathing like he’d run miles.

“I hate how much I needed that,” Ray whispered.

“You needed connection,” Sonju said, voice low and quiet as the cave’s heartbeat. “There is no shame in that.”

“It feels like weakness.” Says Ray.

“Then let me show you otherwise.” His thumb brushed Ray’s cheek again, softer this time, almost hesitant. “At your pace.”

Ray let himself stay close, forehead still touching Sonju’s. He could hear the younger children's voices far behind, safe. And here, in this pocket of night, he wasn’t a soldier, or a strategist, or a survivor clawing through worlds that wanted him dead.

He was a boy who grew up too fast, finally letting himself be young for a heartbeat.

He breathed out. “Stay with me.”

“I will.”

And for the first time, the darkness around him didn’t feel threatening. It felt like shelter.