Work Text:
I
The first time it happens, Orihime is just a newborn.
He’d taken the brunt of the impact, enveloping his little sister in his arms and turning away from the blow. His shoulder will be bruised and sore in the morning, but Orihime is safe and that is all that matters.
Swaddled in a soft pink blanket, the only thing visible outside of the soft cocoon of fabric is her fiery orange hair and her tiny face. Her cheeks are flushed, wet with tears, and her big gray eyes land on Sora’s face.
There is fear in those eyes, and that is the moment Sora knows he must begin planning.
II
He doesn’t look back.
Looking back, he thinks, is acknowledgment. He does not want to acknowledge; he no longer wants to remember that house and all that took place beneath its roof. Each step that he takes is a silent reminder of the need to move forward - both figuratively and literally.
He is not afraid of what is ahead of them, though he knows it won’t be easy.
He is afraid that if he looks back, he will lose his nerve and land them both once again in an impossible situation.
“Niicha,” Orihime wiggles in his arms, her chubby fingers reaching out to poke at his face.
He looks back at her fondly, a warm smile on his face despite the way his eyes have started to burn with unshed tears. That’s right, he reminds himself. Moving forward is not just for me.
It’s for her.
III
It happens almost in slow motion - the telltale wobble, the sound of the chair leg scraping slightly against the kitchen floor, the way Orihime’s eyes go wide and her mouth opens in a silent, surprised O.
She is going to fall, and there’s nothing she can grab onto to stop the descent.
It occurs to her then that she should have waited; she should have listened to Sora when he told her that he’d be right back and he’d get the new bag of rice out of the top cabinet when he returned. But hindsight is 20/20, as the saying goes, and Orihime realizes this with astounding clarity in the seconds it takes for the chair to tip back in its intent to spill her on the kitchen floor.
She braces herself for impact, wondering just how badly she’ll be hurt.
The impact she is expecting never comes.
“Silly girl,” Sora scolds her lightly, his arms braced against her back keeping her balanced. “Didn’t I tell you that I would get it?” He lifts her effortlessly, setting her down on the kitchen floor and reaching up to grab the sought-after bag of rice.
“I’m sorry,” she offers sincerely. “I was just trying to save you some time.”
“I know,” Sora smiles. “But next time, wait for me. I don’t know what I would do if you got hurt.”
His words evoke a memory, something that she has not thought of in a very long time: a rainy day not long before they moved out of their parents’ house. She’d been playing inside, amusing herself with one of the dolls her grandmother had sent for her last birthday. Her father claimed she was in the way. He’d raised his fist, and Orihime had similarly braced for impact.
And just like today, the impact never came. Sora had moved between them, quick as a flash of lightning, the fist hitting him instead with a meaty thump that made Orihime sick to her stomach. She’d started crying, but Sora had only smiled at her the way he was now.
I don’t know what I would do if you got hurt.
IV
“What’s the matter?”
She opens her mouth to tell him. Just then, another clap of thunder sounds, shaking the apartment, and Orihime jumps nearly a foot off the floor. Her big gray eyes fill with tears. “Th-thunder---”
“It’s alright,” Sora says kindly, holding out his arms. She goes willingly into them, safe in his embrace now.
They wait out the storm together.
V
“There,” he says, patting her on the shoulder once. “All done.” He reaches around, putting the handheld mirror up to her face so she can see his handiwork. “It’s not salon quality, but at least the ends will be even until it grows out again.” He rummages in a brown paper shopping bag, holding out his hands so she can see what’s in them.
They’re hairpins with flowers on them. Orihime thinks they look a tiny bit childish, but they are a gift from Sora. A gift on top of everything else he has done for her, and she wouldn’t dare refuse it.
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes lighting up as she pulls both sides of her hair back from her face using the pins. “They’re really pretty!”
“I also spoke with the teacher,” Sora says, his expression somber. “She’s promised to rearrange the seats so those girls are separated from you, and to keep a closer eye on things.” He pauses. “That way the problem can be resolved without it feeling like you’ve tattled on them.”
Orihime nods. “I’m glad.”
I
When he comes to, he is lying in an unfamiliar bed. Sunlight is streaming through the open curtains, and he can see houses from the window. Groaning at the stiffness in his back and shoulders, he tries to sit up.
“Wait! Don’t get up too quickly. You still need your rest.” Orihime has rushed to his side, leaning over him with a worried expression. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve just been run over by a car,” he answers, his throat dry. She notices and passes him a glass of water on the nightstand. Gratefully, Sora gulps it all down, the cool liquid refreshing. “What happened?”
“You were hit by a car,” Orihime starts quietly. “I was so worried,” she whispers, tears spilling out of her eyes. “I didn’t think I would make it in time---” She cuts herself off, inhaling deeply. “Did you know? When you gave them to me, did you know?”
“Know what about what?” Puzzled, Sora shakes his head.
“The hairpins,” Orihime explains, still crying. “They’re like magic. I pleaded for help, and the fairies in the hairpins came out and healed you.” She sniffles. “We were close to Kurosaki Clinic, so I carried you here.”
Nothing she’s saying is making any sense to him, but he blames that on the pounding in his head and his sudden fatigue. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says tiredly, “but maybe we can talk about it some more after I get some sleep?”
“Yes,” she says, squeezing his hand tightly and smiling through her tears. “Yes, of course.”