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soroko-grand · 7 years

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NEW | A Freewrite

In which Soroko and Oracion think about the future they never dreamed they’d have.

The only two shutters that remain hang by a single hail, rocking slightly in the breeze. Yellow paint is peeling off the siding and the window nearest to the door is missing its screen. A sinking ceiling hints at water damage (a leak in the roof). It needs its fair share of TLC, the realtor admits, but the little house has its charms.

His hands ache at the thought of countless hours spent hammering at that roof. Spent ripping away at old, rotting boards, spent making the place a home. He flexes his fingers, blinks. Then he sees, through the window, an image of Oracion setting a pot of lilies upon the sill. Her fingertips brush the petals. Her hair is in a messy bun and she’s wearing one of his old t-shirts -- the very first one she took from him, the one that draped her sleeping form in the early mornings, when the pale light kissed her skin gold and he wondered how desperately heaven missed the angel sleeping soundly in his bed.

It’s perfect.

He doesn’t remember forming the words, but hears his voice speak them.

Soroko’s eyes drift over the property, then meet the dazzling gold of his wife’s where they remain. Together, the two smile. Oracion slips her hand into his own and gives it a soft squeeze. “We’ll take it,” she says.

“Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Grand.”

Three months, seventeen splinters, and many Ghosts weighed down with tools later, Soroko Grand gifts the love of his life a small pot with freshly bloomed lilies.

It’s in the way he holds her, and in the way she lets him. Several nights spent lying in the new bed pass before he feels her surrender, when she finally melts into his embrace and he understands that she has let her guard fall. No more looking over their shoulders at every turn. No more ducking heads or hiding faces, no more disguising their accents, no more fear. All at once, the feeling is overwhelmingly liberating. For the first time, they can choose to lead their own lives without the war’s intervention. But what does that even mean?

Five years ago he received the very scars Oracion would later shed tears for. He hadn't felt the bullet in his back until he heard the steady drip as the blood saturating his shirt met the concrete floor. Soon enough, he fell with it. Bullet number two followed the knife attack that left the jagged white sketch that stretched across his abdomen. It entered through his left shoulder blade and exited just to the left of his heart. Had he merely twitched it would have caught the ventricle. Yet here he was. Alive, breathing, turning the gold band around his finger. This is the last place Soroko Grand ever expected to be. Happy. But that's just it. He didn't have a plan, because he never thought he'd need one. Even as a Ghost, his desires were simple; he didn't entertain thoughts or visions of a future past the next seven days. Talib’s missions may have a cleaner record than that of any Western base, but every Ghost knew the dangers. They risked their lives for freedom, and did so everyday. To live for a future he may never meet would have been selfish.

Put simply, Soroko never saw the need.

Then he met her. Then, his future had a name.

While Oracion sleeps, Soroko tosses and turns with the word future dancing behind his eyes. For a while he distracts himself by scrutinizing their room. Through the blinds, la luz de la luna falls in elegant waves over the comforter pooled at their feet and spills over onto the carpeted floor below. It leaves just enough light to make out the intricacies woven into the curtains, or the various photos of the Ghosts on the walls. The decor is a labor of love poured out by the Western wildfire herself. The moment Arizona caught wind of their purchase, she all but dragged Oracion to the department store to peruse their options. His favorite decoration is a simple framed photo of himself and Oracion, taken just two days after their marriage. She’s sitting on his shoulders, their hands clasped and faces lit up with laughter. Oracion may as well be glowing.

It has to be one of the happiest moments of his life. Even with the weight of the world upon their shoulders, to steal a fleeting moment and make it their own. Within the span of a camera’s flash, they’d manage to reclaim what the war (and the people of the East and West) seemed hellbent on denying them -- happiness. They’d risen above. The triumph awakened something within him. Something desperate, something wild. Something like hope. It’s the feeling he clung to during every second of exile. When he feared the woman he loved may be taken from him forever. Of all the times he feared the future more so than the present, he clung to hope. It’s the second best decision he’s ever made. The first lays beside him, softly snoring.

Soroko flips once more, and finally lays upon his side long enough for his wife’s steady breathing to draw him into a trance. Captivated, he watches the rise and fall of her chest and the way each exhale disturbs the wisps of hair near her face. His lips twitch into a smile when he notices the drool at the corner of her mouth, and then his knuckles brush against her cheek, featherlight. If he lets her sleep like he knows he should, then he could be content with this image for the rest of the night. Besides, he’s never seen anything more beautiful. But Soroko Grand was never the best at settling for contentment when a question lingered in the back of his mind.

“Oracion… are you still awake?” He whispers the question into the silence, and instantly regrets it when she begins to stir. She takes her time, lifting her hand above her head and angling her body away from him, as though she’s about to turn. Then, she pauses, and a long sigh escapes her as she turns back to him, resigning herself to wakefulness.

“No,” she grumbles, turning her face into the pillow upon which she wipes her drool. He thinks she’s fallen asleep again when her eyelashes flutter and he’s met with those striking golden eyes of hers. Oracion blinks at him heavily, not quite comprehending, but asks him anyway: “Is everything okay?”

He reaches out again to brush her hair from her forehead (he’s always touching her, reassuring himself she really is there) and smiles apologetically. “Yes, little bird,” he murmurs, now taking her hand and bringing her palm to his lips. “I just can’t sleep.” He kisses her fingertips, one by one, and then she pulls her hand away so she can weave her fingers through his hair.

Oracion’s knowing smile is almost too much for him to bear, but he holds her gaze. “Oh, my sweet boy.” She leans forward, close enough to count the freckles dusting his cheeks, and says, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Green eyes flicker, searching her gaze as if he will strike rich with golden clarity. Then, in a whisper, “I never dreamt I’d get this far.” He watches the emotions flicker across her face, their presence ephemeral, fleeting. First there is confusion, then understanding, then surprise. He licks his lips and presses on, “But then I met you, and I wanted to.” His thumb traces soft circles against her hip, where his hand has finally found rest. Their eyes lock again, and she’s imploring him, encouraging his vulnerability. That’s when the words come tumbling from his lips. “I didn’t have a plan. It’s always been living for the next day and nothing more. Even when I asked you to marry me… I didn’t know what I was going to do. I mean, we have a home now. We’re settling down. But it still feels so unreal. Like I’m going to wake up and be lying in a cot again, shooting at any hint of blue. Oracion, I don’t think I know how to plan for a future.” He pauses to take a breath, working his lip. “I guess I just want to know… what do you want? What kind of future do you want with me?”

Oracion isn’t blindsided by his question. Her brows are knitted in thought, but she lifts her hand to his cheek and gently smooths her thumb against his jaw before she touches her forehead to his. She’s breathing slowly, considering the way her lungs inhale and exhale. It’s the first time he realizes that she’s been thinking of this too. “All I know is that whatever future has you in it is a good one. It’s okay not to have a plan. Maybe it’s even better that way. Whatever we face, we’ll face it together. That’s how it’s meant to be, Soroko.”

He releases the breath he’d been holding and then his lips are on hers, a tender and unhurried kiss. Muscles still heavy with slumber, Oracion reacts a few moments later, smiling as her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. When he pulls away, he holds her close, his forehead pressed to hers. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The valley is a sleepy little place, nestled between a pair of mountains that stretch to kiss the sky. Though the town still bares the scars of war, its isolation proved to be its saving grace. At least, it saved the ragtag band of Ghosts in desperate need of a haven. The prejudices so deeply rooted within most Eastern or Western provinces do not thrive in the higher altitudes. However, they still rear patches of thorns in the darker corners of the valley. Their arrival sparked great debate amongst the townspeople; few could agree upon the idea of harboring defectors. The press ran wild in the first few months of their arrival. Eventually, even the most fervent of war sympathizers in the little town turned their heads. And so the sleepy valley became home.

In the quiet of the morning, two lovers sway back and forth on a bench swing, their bodies pressed together. This is their morning ritual: their eyes remain fixated upon the eastern mountain face, where the sun will crest the peak and bathe the valley in pale, radiant light.

His chest rises and falls against her back as his arms pull the thick blanket draped over their shoulders closer, to ward off the chill. The young man, hair disheveled and socks mismatched, drags his lips from her ear to her neck, grinning smugly when the girl’s body shakes with laughter. “Soroko!” She swats at him, the back of her hand barely grazing his nose, “That tickles!” Of course, he does it again -- only this time he makes sure to press a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of her neck, where he can feel her pulse jump beneath his lips.

These are not stolen moments.

These are not visions.

They are real. They are theirs.

“Talib called,” Oracion says, leaning her head back against his chest and effectively redirecting his thoughts. “They’re bringing Josiah home today. He and Addalon want us to meet him. All of us.”

“What time?”

“Noon. Addalon is cooking a big lunch, and after that we can spend time with Josiah.”

At the thought of seeing the others -- his family -- again, Soroko smiles. It broadens when he thinks of Addalon and Talib introducing them to their adopted son, a toddler orphaned by the war. After months of preparation, court appearances, and endless hope and prayer, they’re bringing the little boy home.

“That gives us plenty of time to go shopping then.” Soroko finally says, setting his chin decisively on her shoulder.

“For what?”

“A gift. We have to be the cool aunt and uncle. He has to like us more than Arizona and Tobias.”

Oracion levels him with an incredulous gaze, but her attempts to hide a smile prove futile. Soon, she’s laughing again, shaking her head and turning her eyes back to the horizon painted in streaks of gold. “I wasn’t aware there was going to be a competition.”

“There won’t be, if we get him a gift. We’ll have automatically won. That’s how it works.”

“Oh? And you know because…?”

Soroko simply grins and pecks her on the cheek, tightening his grip around her waist. “Trust me on this one.”

Hand in hand, they knock at the Connellys’ door four hours later and are swiftly drawn in by a wave of Ghosts. There’s Talib, Arizona, and Tobias, but no sign of Addalon or their newest addition. Soroko doesn’t even get a chance to comment on their absence before he and Oracion are swept into tight, warm hugs. Of course, it’s Arizona who squeezes them the longest, and the instant the couple is released, the blonde has spirited his wife away into the kitchen (“You’re just in time. I just started the brownies!”), leaving the three men behind.

Even without Josiah, Talib always assumed a paternal presence. Clapping both of the younger Ghosts on the back, Talib breaks the companionable silence hanging over them first. “It’s good to see you two. How are you adjusting to frontier life?” He muses, squeezing the boys’ shoulders. He’s all easy smiles, crows feet, and light teasing; even after everything he’s been through -- the terror, the torture -- Talib still radiates warmth and security. He still throws his head back when he laughs. He still pretends to act surprised when Addalon “sneaks up on him”. He is still every bit the man Soroko strives to be. Which is why he plans on asking Talib what it means to make a future with someone. Because right now, he is still confused as ever.

He and Oracion are happy. They have a home to call their own, a family that loves them and is always there for them. But something is missing.

“Ari and I have been thinking about starting a business,” Tobias says by way of an answer, beaming proudly when Talib’s eyebrows arch, intrigued. “Carpentry,” he explains. “After working on this guy’s house, I realized it’s something the town might need.”

They talk prospects: location, capital, name. But Soroko isn’t listening. Instead, his eyes have fallen upon a silent observer barely visible in the doorway. A little boy, just shy of a year, watches the three with strikingly blue eyes. He doesn’t yet realize he’s been seen. He simply studies, eyes shifting from Talib to Tobias, and finally to Roko. And that’s when their gazes meet.

Josiah gasps and instantly takes cover behind the safety of the wall until, five seconds later, he steals another peek. The green-eyed man is still standing there, watching him with quirked lips. He considers fleeing, running to find Addalon, when the man offers him a wave. Tentatively, Josiah lifts his hand and squeezes at the air in his own wordless greeting.

They meet formally about ten minutes later when the entire ensemble is seated in the living room. Addalon cradles the toddler in her arms before unceremoniously dumping him in Talib’s lap. The boy isn’t even fazed, and giggles with delight when Talib gently pokes at his belly and cooes. Addalon sits beside and strokes the wild mess of hair atop the child’s head, a tender smile teasing her lips. It’s the softest Roko’s ever seen the woman. Oracion, he notes when his gaze inevitably falls upon her, is watching on in quiet fascination. It’s then that he realizes this is probably the closest she’s ever been to a baby. Addalon notices, too. “Do you want to hold him?”

When Oracion finally pulls her gaze away, Addalon is looking pointedly to her. “Me?” Her voice is an octave higher than usual. It’s the voice she only uses when she’s genuinely confused or startled. “I-I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy,” Talib bandwagons, and without preamble he deposits the child into her lap.

Oracion’s entire body visibly tenses. Her eyes follow his every move, but even as Josiah reaches up to pat her cheek, not a single muscle betrays her stillness. Soroko moves to place his hand on her knee, but finds his touch isn’t even enough to calm her.

“Oracion-” his lips have barely formed her name when it happens. Josiah, having grown bored with Oracion’s lack of reaction, moves to stand, and slips. Her arms are around him in a blur of movement, long before he blinks.

And with a breath, the spell is broken.

Josiah’s entire face contorts with joy when Oracion looks the toddler in the eyes. After a clap of his hands, he places both palms on her cheeks and giggles brightly, as though touching the woman’s face is a cause for great celebration. All the while, Oracion remains silent. Cautious. She’s never swam these waters before and does not know when the swell may meet her and pull her under. Yet the baby’s smile and deep blue eyes are drawing her in, and now she’s wading, she’s letting the water surround her-

“He likes you,” Addalon murmurs. The admission is enough, and Oracion closes her eyes, ducks her head and the world beneath the water’s surface opens up to her in a cool embrace. Soon enough Josiah is squealing with laughter, Oracion’s fingers gently prodding the ticklish skin beneath his jaw.

All the while, Soroko watches her. He sees the smile that began as a mere twitch of the lips stretch into a broad grin, sees the mischief alight in her eyes, sees her entire being glow with the child’s acceptance. Forgotten is the gift he left in the car. They don’t need it. It’s clear that Josiah is already more than enamored by his wife’s mere presence. Even still, he rises from the couch with a quick “be right back” and returns a minute later with the gift in his hand, which he hands to Talib.

The bear becomes Josiah’s most prized possession. He names it Raci.

Oracion has the best of intentions when she tries to conceal her delight. (It almost works.)

Roko chose an automatic vehicle for the express purpose of holding her hand. She reaches for his almost immediately after putting her seatbelt on, twining their fingers together and sighing contentedly. Addalon delivered with a delicious meal, leaving their bellies full and bodies warm, even with hours having passed. The radio’s on, some soft song playing, background music for their thoughts. This how he likes it. It’s the quiet intimacy of these moments spent with Oracion, moments he vowed never to take for granted. He could hold her hand in the still, comfortable silence, his belly full of good food and heart full of joy. With that thought, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the fingertips. Then, stealing a glance in her direction, he says, “Josiah really loved you.”

Oracion’s gaze flickers to him. It’s almost like he’s asking her a question, the way his voice lilts when he says the words. Like he’s digging, but she doesn’t know what for. His fingers flex around hers.

“He would have had the same reaction to anyone. Addalon just gave him to me first.” He knows his wife well enough to hear the well-disguised uncertainty in her voice. The wishing and the hope behind her words. It’s his job to prove to her that her hope is not misplaced.

“Even when Ari was holding him, he was still reaching for you. And when we were eating lunch? He wouldn’t stop staring at you!” Roko can’t help but laugh fondly at the memory, Josiah’s mouth gaping open as he stared wide-eyed at the woman. Even with his eyes on the road, he knows she’s cracked a smile.

The sun has long since dipped beneath the horizon, painting the coming night in sharp, long sweeps of deep violet that bleed into the heavens. A few stars already twinkle above their heads, yet la luna has yet to make her appearance. It isn’t until she dips into their sight with her brilliant glow that Oracion breaks the warm silence in the vehicle. “That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen them.”

She blinks and sees a future before her eyes.

That night, Soroko finds her like this: standing on the porch, hands wrapped around her mug of tea, gazing up at the light of the full moon. She is a sight to behold. Her hair falls in waves down her shoulders, haloed by the la luz de la luna, and her eyes shimmer, pools of molten gold. Three years together and he’s still falling, still catching himself staring, blushing, fumbling when she comes near. Her touch still sends his heart thundering against his rib cage, and sometimes he even forgets how to breathe. God, he loves her. So much.

Roko comes up behind her, arms around her waist, and settles his chin upon her shoulder. His breath tickles her neck, slow and steady.

“Oracion?” She can hear his brows knit together. He’s hesitant. Nervous. Uncertain.

“Mmm.” She doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why the thought came into her mind -- but she knows. She knows exactly what he’s going to ask. And she feels no fear, no apprehension. Only peace and unexplainable joy. A premature smile rests on her lips, for she already knows the answer to his yet-unspoken question. Then:

“Do you wanna make something new?”

Soroko kisses her forehead and then dips down to press one sweet kiss to the cheek of each child she holds in her arms. Calla and Tulevai Grand.

The future has never been so beautiful.

#otp: la luz de la luna #w: freewrite

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