phantom of a dream

Sora never looked at him when they embraced.

At first, Yozora figured that it was because Sora hated him. Which, considering their initial rough start, would have been understandable.

But it doesn’t change.

Not the second time.

Or the third.

Even the fourth follows the same tune.

Time and time again, as they bared their hearts out to each other, it stayed the same.

Sora never looked at him.

No matter how hard Yozora pushed against him, how hard he worked to steal the breath from his body or how quietly he called out to him, Sora never looked.

He doesn’t give up.

And while Sora had a remarkable stubborn streak, Yozora was not one easily beat.

(Admittedly, it does take a while.

But, the good thing about dreams was that he could redo it as many times as he needed until he finally got it right.)

One evening, after he’s led Sora into their familiar habit and has him pinned down by the neck, Sora speaks, his voice breaking, eyes closed tightly.

“It’s not you,”’ Sora sobbed out, trying to hide his face, “When I look at you, I see someone else.”

Yozora pulled back, silently watching as Sora continued to cry.  It wasn’t odd for Sora to see someone else in him. After all, his form was borrowed, meant only to last for the moment.

Still, the knowledge nestled deep in his heart, and Yozora doesn’t know what to do.

He settled on something he read in a story long ago.

“That’s fine,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss Sora’s tears away, “It’s temporary, but draw me as you see fit.”

Finally, finally, Sora opened his eyes and looked up at him.

Yozora held his chin gently, and Sora doesn’t shy away from the kiss this time.

“Call their name,” Yozora said as he began their union again, shifting Sora into his lap. “This is but a dream, anyway.”

Sora leaned into his touch, his eyes thoughtful as the tears began to slow.

“A dream….”

Yozora stayed still when Sora cupped his cheek, an ache settling in his heart as Sora stared right through him.

The final tear fell, and in their small corner of the world, Sora sobbed out a name on a broken whisper.

(It’s fine, Yozora thought, This was only but a dream.)

It does something to him.

That name.

When he hears it, Yozora feels his blood boil uncomfortably, his heart heavy as frustration eats away at his mind. He wants to scratch it out, to reach into his chest, and squash down whatever the hell it was he’s feeling.

(He knows. But, he also knows better than to hope in a fantasy.)

A part of him wished that he had never spoken, wished that he had never let his name be taken so easily and replaced with another.

These days, Sora only looked at him for that person.

In between their regular conversations and routines, Sora sought out that person in him.

It made him sick.

Every shy glance, every cheerful smile and loving gaze.

None of them were his, and it made Yozora sick.

Briefly, he wondered if they could fall back into their old routine. He had always been better at destroying his opponents than handling the sickness in his heart.

(It’s become a nightmare that Yozora couldn’t wake from.)

He watched as Sora swung his legs over the edge of the building.

He summoned his crossbow.

Strike. Vanish. Repeat.

They were living in an endless loop.

His finger curled over the trigger.

What was one more death in the string of infinite restarts?

“Oh! Look at that star!” Sora called out, standing abruptly. He turned to look at him, smiling cheerfully.

Yozora let his hand fall to his side, empty.

“Yes, it’s one of many,” he answered quietly, the phantom of a weapon still lingering behind.

Sora nodded, turning back to face the sky. “Yeah, but it’s still pretty special, don’t you think?”

The world faded away when he was with Sora.

If only it could light up as well.

(He was to be a savior, and Sora the martyr.

Anything else was but a fool’s wish.)

These days, he refused to look at Sora.

Sora would call out that name sweetly, and Yozora focused on everything else, wishing nothing more than to rid it from existence.

He flinched away from Sora’s stare, positioning him so that he wouldn’t have to be the focus of that loving gaze.

(It wasn’t meant for him anyway.)

He tried to focus on the way Sora’s body shivered beneath him, the way it trembled and bled beneath his hands. Here, in their little corner of the world, Yozora wished it could just be them.

Sora cried out and arched his back, calling out that name again.

Yozora bit his lip, the taste of blood filling his mouth as he pushed against Sora harder, his breathing labored.

(How he hated that name. How he wished that he could steal it right off Sora’s tongue and erase it from existence.)

There’s a roaring in his ears, and Yozora only feels the heat embracing him, tightening and tightening around him, suffocating him in its embrace.

An old memory plays, and Yozora remembers the story of a kind prince and how his perseverance finally won him his dream.

A scream claws its way out of his throat, and Yozora comes undone, vaguely aware of Sora echoing his release.

The sweat rolled down his body, and Yozora couldn’t help but find the world terribly cruel.

“Yozora?”

He focused on Sora beneath him, who finally, finally stared at him. He adjusted himself, laying on his back, his eyes searching him carefully.

Sora reached up and swiped his thumb across his cheek gently.

Oh.

Yozora hadn’t realized he had begun to cry.

“Sora,” he called out quietly, reaching up to grasp his hand in his. “Sora…”

Sora pulled him down into a hug, holding Yozora close.

Yozora closed his eyes, listening as the heart beneath him drummed out a calming melody.

(He didn’t want to hear that name anymore.)

Sora moved his hand to smooth his hair down, comforting him the best he could.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Yozora laughed softly, his tears falling onto Sora’s chest.

“It’s fine,” he said, voice wavering, “Dreams only last for so long.”

(He was nothing more than an empty vessel for that name.)