A/N: Originally posted on ao3 on 2019-09-07
The title is from poem 'I dream of you, to wake' by Christina Rossetti

thank you to foxdreams and paion/raptorwhistle for beta-ing and encouraging!
also thanks to steamwhistler2 (on twitter) for their wonderful theories that never fail to inspire me!

Riku had expected it to hurt — reaching so far down inside himself that he folded, diving into his consciousness with reaching, desperate arms. Countless times had he done it to others, slipping into their dreams like water through a sieve, but never on himself, or someone like him. The veil between the conscious and the subconscious was normally as thin as a silk sheet and just a smooth and pliant — and close , fiber to fiber with the conscious layer above it. But like a coin tossed into an empty, echoing well, Riku plummeted deeper and deeper until only a pinpoint of light remained above, the atmosphere that was eerily still and nothing compressing into weight and throat-constricting thickness. Falling became pulling, like swimming against the tide, and then clawing , arms and hands begging for purchase until— His hands sunk into a sinister, protective darkness as thick as mud but as slippery as slime. Riku's eyes widened in fascinated disgust; this was at his core?

The layer between his subconscious and dreams were nothing like the mortals', because their dreams had nothing to hide.

Ferocity blinded him, lightning cracking behind his eyes, and he ripped into the black mass. Were he awake, his fingers would feel raw and sore, nails bleeding — but this was his purview. Dreams and nightmares were his soldiers, slumber his kingdom. Nothing hurt him here, because nothing could . "Even gods have limits," someone had warned him, but the two were contradictory; what was divinity with restrictions? What was the point if he didn't have the strength to protect what— why did his own dreams resist —

Just as he felt the despair rising in his throat like bile, he clenched his fists, the thick goo slipping through his fingers, and yelled — no, screamed with every vocal chord, all his divine will and desire put into the single blasting chord. The thick atmosphere flared, shifting and electric under Riku's demands, and then, the darkness that had consumed his arms up to the elbow congealed before it cracked, blinding light radiating through like the sun piercing clouds. The light pierced Riku , too, interweaving raw energy into every fiber of his soul, and suddenly the viscous dark protecting his divinity withered from just his glance, recoiling and disappearing like it'd never existed, no trace left behind.

He expected it to burn, touching the white-hot light — but it was warm, radiant and soothing like the sand on the beach in summer. It felt familiar, because it was him, a part of him, and all of him, all at once.

He grasped it with both hands and pulled — away from what? Where did Riku begin and end? It felt like tugging on a thousand strings, or ripping a seam. He shut his eyes and focused on physical form, imagined it emerging from his chest instead, gritting his teeth.

And when he opened his eyes again, breath shallow, it was just him, his godhood an incandescent orb hovering just above his hands. The silence around him was echoing, sacred even. It produced a stillness in Riku as he breathed, not because he needed to, but to process the tendrils of fear, apprehension that settled like a weight in his gut.

Dreams were consumable — malleable, sweet, and evanescent; Riku relished in every one he made, placing it lovingly in the souls of slumbering mortals before diving in to watch them stumble through their unique wonderland before the dream faded at dawn. He created their second lives — ones they wouldn't remember, ones that gently broke apart their waking life into small and edible pieces, ones of solace and reprieve. He had thought that maybe a soul could avoid death, if they were put in a perpetual dream; and Riku felt lightheaded, dizzy, and nauseous at the thought, the memory — a cold, lifeless corpse in his arms, the expression so similar to sleep, soft and peaceful and wrong , it made him sick — there was no subconscious to accept Riku's dreams in the dead, no dream strong enough to encompass the heart he cherished —

Riku shuddered, reeling in the despair that flooded every nerve and threatened to flare from his power. Blinking back tears, he steeled himself anew.

If his dreams needed life to power them, then Riku would be a martyr — and he reached within himself one more time. This time he was met with no resistance; the moment his essence found the other, his mind was flooded. That smile, those ever-blue eyes, his laughter—

Memories filtered through — the first dream that Sora remembered. He was six years old, Riku recalled, and Riku had given him a huge sandbox, so many buckets and shovels and plastic molds of castles and stars and fish littering every square foot. Sora had found himself plopped down in the sand, his tiny hands buried in it, and he gasped, lips upturning and eyes so alight they sparkled. The sand! So fine, so soft, so warm!

He had looked up and met Riku's gaze — he had entered the dream as a child, too, to blend in. "Help me build a sand castle, Riku!" Sora had said, grin so wide his cheeks remembered an echo of soreness. Sora didn't remember how he knew Riku — and by Riku's wide eyes and slack mouth, maybe Sora didn't . For years, Riku had given Sora dreams, as he did for all the mortals — but Sora was the first in centuries to speak to him — certainly the youngest mortal to even notice Riku's presence.

They built sandcastles all night.

Another dream — " When's the last time you woke up, Riku? " Sora had asked. Having just hit another growth spurt, he couldn't sit still, kicking his legs against the wooden poles of the dock, relishing that his toes finally hit the water's surface. Riku could have just brought the water higher for him, but a year ago Sora had insisted that he didn't. Maybe Sora forgot that request, but Riku never forgot anything Sora said.

A long time , he had replied, before he thought better of it. He didn't want Sora to know who — or what — he really was. Then, they couldn't be friends the same, right?

Sora had taken his hand — so slowly too, like he meant every moment of it. Sora's skin was soft, the pressure of his fingers gliding along Riku's palm gentle. He intertwined their fingers and said, "You should come see my world sometime." The stars twinkled in Sora's eyes, white thorns that ensnared Riku's words. From the memory, Riku watched himself dumbly nod.

He did. The waking world and dreamworld merged together for Riku, because they were both filled with Sora. Riku obsessed over every detail of Sora's life — consumed it like it were a dream of his own. Sora's world was beautiful — maybe that's why it didn't last.

Riku opened his eyes, unable to bear the thought — the rush of memories and feelings drained away. He felt the emptiness in his bones.

But, from his chest Sora's soul emerged in a fuchsia, crystalline heart.

Riku's godhood shined on the sacred, fragile diamond as it hovered; the light refracted through, creating bright, pointed fractals of red like crowns all around. His hand rose to touch the glass-like surface, just for the slightest chance to feel Sora in the crystal prison — but no, he froze only centimeters from touching.

On Earth, the mortals constructed shrines to the Gods with intricate stone walls and spires and colorful glass, and within gave thanks with prayers on knees, and with gifts on regal, sanctified altars. Riku had never understood their reverence — but holding Sora's heart hovering above his palm, he thought this must be what they felt.

What Riku was doing was no different — Riku would solidify the sands of time into new walls within himself. The windows would steal the colors of the waking world and siphon them into shards, murals of places Sora and Riku loved. But instead of a still, silent altar, they'd dance over and across every square inch of their cathedral, hopping from life to life, world to world, their hearts the song that guided their steps.

Riku let the image fill his mind, holding his infinite power in one hand, and infinite love in the other. The power condensed before bursting out all around like a supernova, racing to the endless edge in a wave of electricity while his love shaped energy into ideas, ideas into substance, substance to form . He thought about what Sora would want — he loved the sea; adventure into the new and unknown; bright skies, bright faces, and bright futures. He loved heroes — he loved long stories. Riku couldn't help but grin, chest warm — Sora loved to nap, loved to dream, loved to love, loved Riku . In the new, rapidly expanding bubble of the created dream, new stars blinked into existence until an entire microcosm blossomed, empty but brimming with potential.

Riku knew the moment Sora's heart entered it, the dream would receive an influx of life — Sora's heart tethered countless others to his, interweaving lives like string the Fates would envy. Death would turn his cheek to the souls Sora pulled in, his hunger no match for Sora's connections.

All that was left was for them to dive. Riku hesitated, poised at the very border between his created reality and the rest of himself. How many layers of himself would he shed, diving in? His divinity would stay behind, to fuel his dream, to fuel their fantasy. Diving in would be bathing in amnesia; he'd forget about gods and mortals, about life and death, about dreams and waking. He'd do it again and again, effortlessly, endlessly, if he could be by Sora's side. But…

He'd have to forget what it felt like, what it meant, to be by Sora's side. Their life together — their real one — would have to remain here.

He ached, the thought of losing what he held sacred only under Sora himself — the hollowness and sorrow of being alone and without light and life again.

But in the dream, they would find each other. They would love again. Riku would walk with Sora side by side as a mortal, living out the truth Riku knew they were meant to have. It was a sacrifice of everything, but a fraction of what could be.

He knew, staring into the flawless, glimmering poppy-red of Sora's crystal that there was nothing left for him in the waking world; his whole universe was in the palm of his hand. There was only one thing left to do.

Just from the notion of it, the spherical dream in front of him expanded, higher and higher until he couldn't see over or around it. The surface was like rippling water, shifting and flowing, the undercurrents filtering the inner lights like sunlight on wet pebbles. It was mesmerizing, purposefully enticing, but Riku's stare was broken as a white mass broke through the dark floor. It was a white marble slab that rose slowly, the top meeting in a sharp point. Riku kept his gaze steady at the center, where the slab was split into two doors, the slabs paneled and outlined with designs and words of the gods. The handles were sleek and gold, belying the monument of their task. When the marble settled into place right in front of him, roses grew and entangled themselves around the bottom and sides, crimson and thorny.

These two doors would be the only way in or out.

The doors swung open as soon as Riku so much as wished it, a blast of air pushing through his hair. He took a deep breath.

Once he stepped through, they might not be able to come back — might not ever return home. There was no turning back, but this was his only chance. He couldn't let fear stop him.

He wasn't afraid.

Holding Sora against his chest, he took one step through, and let himself fall.

He felt like he had dived into the ocean, the atmosphere crisp and cold — but gravity pulled him in like long arms had grabbed hold, held fast to him and dragged him down. His own creation was eager for him —

Or, was it his creation? He looked up, light shining on the surface of— something. Details were getting hazy.

Falling was important, he knew. His name, Riku, he knew. But… one hand reached up. How did he get here? Why was he falling? Where was he going?

He looked down to his chest: Sora. He knew it was Sora, by the bright, pulsating red light. He didn't know why that told him.

He felt weaker, lighter, every passing moment, like parts of him were unraveling like chains up to the surface — to one day climb back up? But he held fast to the heart in his arms, even as the darkness grew deeper and suffocating around him.

It didn't matter how he got here, or why. All that mattered was Sora — staying strong for Sora.

Strength, to protect what—

And everything went black.

No light reached the cavern where Sleep slept. His body lay peacefully in an ebony throne, cocooned in soft, silk sheets, completely still save his breaths. Though completely entombed in darkness, he was haloed by his silver hair, strands glinting one by one like stars shooting across the night sky. As time passed, poppies grew along the cave walls, in every crack and crevice, until the room was a sea of red and black, each bloom a new voice whispering in the chorus, " dawn is soon. "

Starlight reached the end of yet another strand of Riku's hair, and faded away. Even the god's breath stalled as the darkness took over again. Tears welled from his closed eyes and shed off the sides of his face, creating rivers that deposited on his pillow. And then, a new strand lit up at the root, shimmering and new and blinding. His tears sank into the fabric, his face dried, and the dream continued for another lifetime.

A/N:

If you were curious, I heavily based Riku off the Greek god Hypnos - hence the poppies, Riku's "tears like rivers" which was a reference to the river of Lethe, and other various things. I just couldn't get the thought of Riku, a god, loving Sora so much that he not only gives up his divinity to be with Sora, but creates an entire universe, tailored for him, out of my head.

Thanks for reading! If you want to scream about soriku with me more, I'm over on twitter KaiserinAstraia!