Kokoro no Hanashi

DISCLAIMER: Don't own FF:U. Don't own Kingdom Hearts. Don't own the Heartless (why the hell would anybody ever want to own those creepy things anyway...?). The sub-bad guys here (Koryu, Kara, kagami-Kaze, and Azrael) are of my invention, though.

So little time, so much to do...

Where to begin...?

---

I've... been having these strange feelings lately...

Am... I dreaming? Is this a dream...? Or is it real...? I don't understand anymore...

---

"Don't make it too tight, now, Niisama. I won't be able to move!"

"Kumo-chan, you're going to be up there in the fountain. If I leave this as loose as you're asking me to, everyone's gonna be able to see right up your kimono. And you'll be showing way too much leg for a ceremony like this."

A giggle as the firm hands tugged the silk slip and its cotton underlayer a little closer around the smooth, slim body. "You're always way too protective of me, Kiri-niisama. It's not like anyone would try anything, even if they could. I'd be too high up for them to bother... and besides, isn't this what you're my bodyguard for?"

"Of course I'm protective of you... I'm your brother." Tug. "This is your first time as a ritual dancer... I want everything to be absolutely perfect." Tug. "Hold yourself shut, here. I don't want anyone thinking stuff like that about my baby brother, either. You're supposed to be graceful and ethereal. Not sexy. So, no showing them your thighs, or your panties. This thing already makes your legs look a mile long, which is bad enough." All the while, the hands were steadily tying the crimson obi. "I'll leave this down, since you decided you didn't want a butterfly bow. It'll hang open just to your knees, which should give you room to move. Okay?"

"Like you'll let me answer any other way." More giggling. "Pick me up, Niichan-!"

The hands moved back to brush a fluff of crimson hair out of equally crimson eyes. Kiri Madoushi looked at his little brother, shook his head, and smiled. At nineteen years of age, he was tall (six feet and two inches, to be precise) and built with the wiry strength of his people: the only muscle his years of swordsmanship training had given him was a tough, hard layer over his body that showed no visible bulge unless he wanted to show it off. His features were sharp, with slanted, angular almond eyes, strong brows that had a tendency to point down, giving him a mischievous look, and points to his chin, cheekbones, and the tip of his nose. He'd let his crimson hair grow long, and it fell in tufts down to his waist; the three spikes on his forehead were long and deadly-looking, with fluffs of red parting around them. Unlike a normal human, the soft down all over his body had never curled or coarsened; it had just stayed silky baby hair, giving him a smoother body that might be harder to get a hold on in a fight. He wore his red swordsman's uniform at the moment--long sleeved shirt, form-fitting pants, and voluminous cloak, with his Mist-belt and swordbelt fastened over it.

"Okay, then, Kumo-chan. Be ready..."

Kiri ducked down, put his right hand behind his brother's ankles, and flipped him up into his arms bridal-style, spinning him around. The giggles returned, quickly becoming squeals of delight. When Kiri finally slowed, stopped, and dropped into a sitting position, they died away into gasps for breath, though the childishly innocent smile didn't go away. Kumo was and had always been a sweet boy; he and Kiri adored each other.

Kumo, at sixteen years, was a study of similarity and contrast to his brother. Where Kiri was all sharpness and angularity, Kumo was softness and curves. His thin brows, full cheeks, gently rounded chin, and the upward curve to the tip of his nose gave him a baby face; his jadeine-green almond eyes were wider than his brother's, with less of a slant and more of a tilt, and his lips were soft and plush. He was four inches shorter than Kiri, and his body was built on an even more slender frame. Unlike his brother, Kumo wore his soft white hair short; silky tufts framed his face and the seven sharp spikes on his forehead; a few stray strands fell around the ivory nape of his neck. The thin choker of periwinkle ribbon drawn around the base of his throat ended in a long ribbon that floated around his form whenever he moved; the snap that connected it was once again right at the nape, which all of Kumo's clothes left exposed. That, the soft earlobes that the short white hair didn't hide, and the amount of skin that the swordsman's uniform and ceremonial kimono left exposed was all the 'sexy' Kiri could take from his brother.

The kimono itself was beautiful. Its silk folds fell softly to Kumo's ankles; the white yukata beneath it and the thin layer of cloth Kumo had fastened around his waist beforehand gave him a perfectly cylindrical silhouette. The cloth was necessary--while Kumo didn't exactly have an hourglass waistline, he was slim enough that it would disrupt the idealistic form of the kimono if he went without. The kimono's color went through shades of light blue to white, starting from the sleeves, shoulders, eri, and hem; in the darker areas, patterns of silver thread created fine, delicate snowflakes. The obi that Kumo had chosen to go with it was solid crimson; though his role as a dancer dictated that he wear his kimono a little looser than usual, when the whole thing was put together, it looked perfect.

Kiri told him as much.

"Do you think I'll do well?" Kumo asked shyly, snuggling closer into his brother's arms.

"Of course," Kiri replied, tenderness that only Kumo saw in his voice. "You've been practicing so much. Your body knows how. Trust it."

"Unn..." The little swordsman leaned up to catch his brother's lips with his own.

The kiss was slow and gentle; it stayed that way even after Kiri slipped his tongue into Kumo's mouth. Their hold on each other remained tender; neither one's hands roamed. The rhythm of their breathing stabilized, synchronizing; the beating of their hearts already fell into a perfect harmony and needed no adjusting. Neither one shifted; it was as though both wanted to avoid the danger of such things, knowing where it might lead.

When at last they came apart, Kumo blinked up at his brother out of eyes filled with soft longing. "When?" he asked dreamily.

"Not yet," Kiri replied, a note of sternness to his voice.

"Why?"

"Because you're still a baby. We're already promised to each other. When the life-bond is complete, then I'll take you to bed. But not until. ...I love you."

Kumo smiled, closed his eyes, and snuggled still closer. "And I you."

Kiri shook his head, though he smiled back. "Come on. You'd better go... everyone's waiting, after all. Give us a performance to be proud of."

---

The crowds had already gathered at the fountain in the central area of the stone city. Kiri idly rested his hand on the hilt of his Maken; he didn't want to deal with trouble any more than he wanted his dear Kumo's day ruined. As this ceremony--held annually in order to guarantee Mystaria's continued safety--was the most important and the most ancient of their people's rituals, all who were present were traditionally dressed: Those who had no specialized callings were clad in kimono, healers wore their fluid robes, and the swordsmen and summoners of the city were duly armed. Kiri caught a glimpse of his parents in the crowd; his father wore the same swordsman's clothing his son did, but in his own shades of midnight blue. His mother, Mystaria's last guardian user, wore the short, open kunoichi's kimono, tight leggings, a low-set obi tied in a practical bow, and lengths of linen that bound her small breasts nearly flat. Catching his gaze, Kageshi smiled briefly; Madori nodded. Kiri stood a little straighter, gave them a tiny bow, and returned to scanning the crowds.

The excited murmurs gave way to dead silence as the waves of people parted for Kumo and his honorary guard. Kiri, watching, stifled a scowl; as soon as he'd left, Kumo had tugged his kimono further open; the slit in the side once again parted with each step to show a tantalizing glimpse of smooth ivory leg. Kumo was young and innocent, but not so young that people wouldn't begin to whisper at such a display. Kiri hadn't wanted to have any more secret fist fights to settle the issue of his brother's honor (he might occasionally harbor a brief fantasy about the day when he and Kumo would at last make love, but he would tolerate no such perversity in others--he was every inch the overprotective big brother he seemed).

Dusk traced her fingers across the cloudscape; the spiritual steps to the top of the fountain shimmered into existence.

Putting aside his irritation, Kiri watched with reverence as the two members of the honorary guard helped Kumo mount the silver stair. Neither one followed him as the young swordsman ascended to the small circle of water atop the fountain; the steps vanished as soon as they were relieved of Kumo's weight. Watching closely, Kiri saw that Kumo's expression was peaceful, almost dreamlike. To his brother, it was an obvious cover for Kumo's deep anxiety.

Kiri understood well Kumo's almost hysteric worries about this dance. It was the highest honor to be chosen for the ritual; it had taken months of training for little Kumo to get the steps right. And for still more months after he'd gotten the basics down, the poor child had been unable to stand on the surface of the water, making the element believe through his connection to the Way that sustained him that he was no heavier than a stray leaf. Kiri could remember the tears of frustration, the fits of despair, the tightly bandaged, bleeding feet and the broken nails that had driven deeply into his baby brother's flesh. The ritual, as well as Kumo's high expectations for himself and his aching pride, demanded absolute perfection.

After so long, it had all come down to this.

Taking a deep breath, Kumo stepped onto the water, letting his long thin white sword raise into the sky above him. He made the sign for peace, his slender hands tracing the delicate symbol in the air.

And the dance begun.

While Kiri still disliked how high up the kimono's skirts flew, he grudgingly accepted the fact that the flowing fabric accentuated Kumo's every move, giving an echo effect that enhanced the beauty of his motions. In the instant before the fountain's jets began to slowly project water, Kiri caught sight of his brother's face--the blankness was still there, but visible beneath it, there was strain, even agony; the pupils of Kumo's jadeine eyes had widened to the point where even the low light of the sunset had to be unbearable. There was also a distinct element of sensuality that Kiri had never noticed in the dance before (perhaps because he'd never been allowed to stand so close to the fountain itself). Below the sheath of silk and cotton, Kumo's thin chest was rising and falling heavily with his labored, albeit silent, breathing. His parted lips were swollen, and the motion of his hands seemed almost to caress an invisible form. The kimono had long ago stopped even helping to cover Kumo's long slim legs, and every time the slit pulled tight around his hip, Kiri caught his breath. To his distinct embarrassment for his baby brother, a tiny corner of white was starting to show at the top of the slit; Kiri groaned inwardly and hoped that no one else would notice.

The jets of water propelled Kumo still higher as the sky darkened around them. The slender hands began to trace through the crystalline droplets, turning them to sparkling prisms of light when the last of the sun's rays hit them. Kumo's body shone with moisture; Kiri realized with alarm that not all of it was water. His little brother was literally covered in a fine layer of perspiration.

How can he keep this up? Kiri wondered silently, his heart jolting in sudden fear. Kumo was still too young, too fragile to stand the heavy demands of the dance. Last year's dancer had been twenty-five, and Kumo was just sixteen...

But Kumo, it seemed, had more strength in him than Kiri had bargained for. Face set almost stubbornly, the young swordsman began the powerful, demanding strokes of the dance's climax, starting to trace the runes that would grant Mystaria its protection from the evils that swathed the world.

As Kumo lit each inscription, the insignia painted on the stone buildings in ancient times glowed, responding to the magic. It wouldn't be long before the end...

Fiercely, Kumo reached up and gripped the hilt of his sword, slicing thin lines in the flow of water with its fine blade, the blade that never lost its edge.

And darkness fell.

At first the serpentine writhing sound behind Kiri was an annoyance; when one of the glass-ball lamps exploded, casting darkness over that part of the city, the red-clad swordsman realized, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and whirled, transfixing one of the misshapen creatures that was crawling through the portal made from his own shadow.

It began as a murmur, then quickly became a screamed warning: "Heartless! It's the Heartless!"

Kiri's iron training took hold, and he called to his people, his shouts rising above the panicked cries of the populace. "Citizens to the safety of the buildings whose seals have already been activated! All those with the ability to fight, to me! The dancer must be protected at all costs! Kumo, there's nothing you can do! Just keep dancing!"

Mystaria took heed. Some people bolted for safety; others decided to stand and fight the shadowy creatures that sprang up in every spot of pure darkness. Kumo, who would have faltered, continued to activate the sigils.

Kiri stayed as close to the fountain as he could. Heartless were springing up like a plague of black flies; at night, their threat was greatest since they could pop out of anyone's shadow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his own parents fighting--his father was trying to shield his mother, who stood in the middle of calling one of her guardians, oblivious to the danger she risked and whatever damage she happened to take.

I wish I could risk a Summon myself. Kiri knew that the precious seconds it would take to draw a Mist bottle and configure the commands were seconds that couldn't be spared unless he was under guard; it was too possible for some Heartless to shatter the bottle, causing the Summon to fail at best or at worst twisting the creature inside into something horrible, something out of anyone's control.

Kiri was so occupied fighting off the minor Heartless that threatened the fountain's base that perhaps he didn't see the great darkness that blotted out the stars.

Kumo had almost completed the dance. All he had to do was cast the final mark, the master sigil, and their people would be safe for one more year.

When he opened his eyes, readying himself to swing the tip of his sword down and ignite the seal...

...he saw the alien, evil thickness surround him and froze.

Something man-shaped was moving behind the inky curtain.

Kiri looked up after beheading one particularly troublesome Heartless to see the figure of a tall, brawny human step out of the curtain of darkness that had swept towards Kumo's helpless, paralyzed form and reach forward.

The hand seemed almost to move in slow motion, colliding with Kumo's chest.

It slid easily past the kimono, past skin and muscle and bone.

When the strange man who had walked out of evil ripped something small and glowing from the body of the child before him, time snapped into normal speed again.

Kumo cried out as blood burst from his chest, his eyes wide in horror and pain, his sword clattering to the cobbled street from his nerveless grip. With a soft sob, he fell backwards. The man stepped back into the darkness, which vanished.

No new Heartless appeared. The battles with the existing ones continued, but Kiri didn't realize that. He leaped up into the low bowl of the fountain, catching and cradling his dear Kumo's body as he fell.

The little swordsman was trembling violently, his breath coming in white streams of Mist, his face seeming frighteningly shadowed with deep slashes of violet beneath his eyes. "Kiri..." he managed in a voice so faint his brother had to strain to hear it. Feeling warm wetness touch his chest and arms, Kiri looked down; there was an ugly bloodstain spreading across his baby brother's chest, rapid and uncontrollable. "Oh, Kiri..." Reaching out with his trembling right hand, Kumo brushed his brother's cheek with the tips of his fingers, then fell back, collapsing in his love's arms.

"Kumo...? Kumo...!" This isn't happening. This CAN'T be happening! Oh, God... Oh, God... "Please... say something...! Kumo... KUMO!"

With shaking hands, Kiri pulled open the front of Kumo's sodden kimono, thinking to judge the severity of the wound.

And stared into the torn, broken chest cavity of his dear little brother, into the hollow where once his heart had been before the accursed man in the darkness had ripped it out. He stared, and stared, and stared as the hollow filled with the blood of the ruptured arteries and veins that had been attached to that one vital clump of muscle, stared at the labored spasms of the gray-pink lungs, stared as a line of blood traced from Kumo's mouth as he coughed weakly, unconscious and dying.

"Oh, God...!"

(TBC)