A/N's: The idea first hit me because of all the theories on real Syaoran, as in he has his own Sakura somewhere out there. So I got curious and decided to play around a tiny bit. Apologies to anyone who has been alerted to this twice, I had to take it down due to very funky text screw up issues. Which, when I tried to fix decided to screw up in a whole new way.

Disclaimer: I don't own it and all that jazz.

Of The Moment

I.

In his dreams, Syaoran's Sakura is a little girl. She smiles blindingly for the camera; all stretched lips and teeth and apple rounded cheeks. Her laughter surrounds him and swallows him whole, resonating around them and pushing his lips into a smaller grin of his own. It's not perfect. An echo of, but Sakura accepts him, pulling his hand into her own and intertwining their fingers tightly.

Her head tilts next to his too easily and soft strands of brown sugar hair slip against his cheek. When she is this close the familiar scent of soap clashes heavy with the strong smell of earth and he can't help but breathe her in. They have spent the entire afternoon with their hands deep in dirt, picking apart petals and tying together strands of grass to make chains. His fingers are stained green and mottled brown and her hands bleed with colour when they press against her skin and his clothes.

They pose for the pictures, shouting and crashing against each other playfully as they move and freeze for the flash. Twisting limbs, skin-to-skin and bumping shoulders. One, two, three. They tumble to the ground with blurred lights in their eyes, her laughter following as they fall, and his smile widening as he listens.

"Sakura," he tells her, his voice soft and full of spun innocence, "we should come back tomorrow."

She turns to him, a bridge of freckles across her nose from dancing in the sun; cups her hand around her mouth and whispers.

-

The words he hears are never the same from one day to the next, and it has been so long now since he was with her, since they were that age, that he cannot remember her saying yes.

II.

In his nightmares, Syaoran feels rough hands across his mouth, nails that scratch at his skin, bleeding, and the erratic thumping of his heart.

He fights with everything he has; the thick taint of magic pressing against his skin as he tries to make his fingers move faster. Spells that hang heavy in the air and make his head spin upside down. Lips tight and thin as he keeps his eyes trained on the man that almost lazily flicks back every spell he knows.

"Like a cat with a mouse."

He's not sure who speaks the words, the man or the doll he has created. But he hears the deep tumbling laughter from him, feels ghostly fingers creep up his spine, and senses the sickness in his stomach as he watches the shadow in the corner move.

"Syaoran."

He cannot afford to stop, but his fingers halt all the same. Face to face with his downfall, a perfect mirror image of himself, lifeless - and he understands that it will form into this: bloody, bloody hands, deadened eyes and cutting smile.

He knows that he can't let that happen, won't let that happen. Breathes in shakily and understands what he has to do.

With the last of his energy, Syaoran sacrifices all he can give. Pressing hands slick with sweat against the others eye and feeling the terrible cold of its skin.

Not alive -- not alive -- but he hopes this will be enough. Prays it will be enough. Even if it just has to last for a little while.

He already feels heavy and that man is pressing him before he can move. The taste of metal runs into his mouth as he bites down against the pain; burning flesh tainting the air as the spells cut into his skin, bleeding into his nerves and branding his movements to stop. Turning him into a tattooed corpse as everything fades into darkness.

-

Instead of waking as he is supposed to, as anyone should, Syaoran slips further into another dream, endlessly tumbling through the reality of his past - and when he is lucky, to the vision of his clone.

III.

In the past, Syaoran's Sakura is a Princess. Her voice is soft and sweet and though she seems a little shy and unsure, it takes little encouragement for her to come out from behind the King's legs.

He watches her from a distance, interested but reluctant, eager and nervous. His curiosity nibbled at until he is rooted to the spot and staring. Her dress is pure white and perfectly pristine, spotless in every crease and fold of material. Bright light dances across his eyes, dazzling them into blinking as the bracelet and decorations she wears play about between the shifting shadows.

Sakura looks up from beneath a mop of brown hair, turns to face him and curls her lips into a puzzled line. She laughs timidly when their eyes meet, the sound strange to his ears and making his skin tingle from the inside out.

When he is pushed from behind to close the distance between them, he finds her hands suddenly wrapped around his own. Syaoran blinks and finds himself caught; she pulls on his arm and presses her nose up against his ear. "Sakura," she whispers, the movement of her lips blowing small puffs of air against his skin. She shifts to face him, pulls away, and the faint smell of spices and crisp tang of apples tickles his nose.

She waits expectantly and he swallows, uncertain.

"Syaoran." The name stumbles out of his mouth, breathless, dry and resembling a cough.

Sakura doesn't notice, her eyes crinkle, skin dimples and she throws him a beautiful smile.

He doesn't smile back, not yet, but for an instant, everything around him seems right.

-

In his forced sleep, Syaoran doesn't move. He whispers words in his head, feels his body moving when it doesn't and watches this Sakura's life through the eyes of another, picking apart the familiarities he longs for.

IV.

In the present, Syaoran feels control slip through his fingers. Syaoran awakes with a purpose. Before his mind can catch up to his body's movements, he is already breaking free of the spell. Magic runs hot and fizzing through his veins, tingling every inch of his skin and sparking swiftly out of his fingers.

He hears cracking in response, echoing and splitting through his ears to his head. He sees nothing but darkness, blinding and tumbling as he tries to keep a hold of himself and is pulled mercilessly down and about by the current. Thrown sideways and in so many loops until his skin meets the cold, solid ground with a slap He struggles to stand, all newborn limbs and delicate muscles, as shards of glass grind dotted patterns into his hands.

He breathes deep and heavy for the first time in years, great big mouthfuls of air as he coughs up the remaining liquid from his lungs. His fingers shaking as he wipes water from his eye; smearing blood along his forehead from the paper-thin tears the glass has cut into his skin.

He is slow to move and there is a strange and clunking heaviness to his limbs, sluggish responses as if his body is not quite used to the movement. He feels a stranger in his own bones, far too used to the others perspective and feeling only.

Everything still fits the same as he remembers, but nothing seems to respond and it doesn't quite feel equal to his memories. He tries to avoid the broken pieces on the floor, shuffles and stumbles, counts down ticking time as a distraction from the pain.

His freedom is cold and painful and the reality of what he has to do, what he has to stop, seems terrifying. Syaoran tries not to think about it, stops thinking about it and can't do anything but think about it. The air is crammed with tension and stale and it's hard to swallow. His pulse beats in time to the aches all over his body and he continues forward.

-

He traces the scars sometimes at night, outlining mismatched patterns on his hands and memorising white lines around his ankles. His eyes deaden, lips disappear; pressed down tight and he thinks that revenge seems all too tempting.

V.

Sakura is unconscious. She is heavy in his arms, her dress damp with water and blood; his own, the others and Fai's. She is breathing lightly against his neck, but it feels so much heavier against his skin and each breath seems to bring with it a stinging ache. His fingers cinch around the stiffened fabric that she wears and he presses her closer to feel hummingbird wings beat against his chest.

He stumbles almost, not looking at her, feet on the ground heavy and hands slipping as he concentrates. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in, breathes out, looks down and finds himself trapped.

She smells of loss and fear, the air around her so thick that he almost chokes. Tears slide out from beneath the creases of her eyes and her mouth has taken on a perpetual frown. She is the image of his Sakura, grown up and long limbed and yet she is nothing like his Sakura, with sadness ingrained deep into her skin and a heaviness that threatens to pull him apart.

His leg pulses to a staccato beat and crimson red seeps out from between the makeshift bandages. He feels nothing but the weight in his arms and the ground at his feet, numb, lost in no time and a thousand years old.

When Sakura wakes, he helps her to stand, dry fingers supporting a covered elbow until she is safely to her feet. They are careful not to touch hands, fingers scraping fingers or brushing of skin. She hesitates, her hand hot and just breaking the layer of air before his skin.

He finds his mouth dry, tongue leaden and listens to the stretch of silence between them.

-

He wishes later, when he has the time, that he could have opened his mouth, said something comforting. Done anything but just stand there and look at Sakura that way.

VI.

Syaoran is wide-awake. He feels close to dropping, close to slipping up, close to letting everything go. His hand trembles, muscles twinge and skin throbs with exhaustion.

Sakura seems lost as she watches. Skin paler, eyes dull and smile gone.

He keeps going, hands slick against the handle of his weapon and bones jarring every time he clashes with his enemy. His magic pulses just below his fingertips, asking for release and singing to protect them. He steps back, shakes the temptation out of his hands and grits his teeth in determination.

Sakura does not look at him but looks through him, seeing someone else. He tries to find fault, cannot, and knows that half of the time, maybe even less than that now - he does the same.

The hit catches him off balance, staggers him backward and throws stars in his vision. He feels hot, feels cold and wonders at the pounding in his ears. His name rings loudly in his head, world tilts and shoves him sideways.

Sakura's knuckles turn white, fingers threaten to crack and the air on the battlefield turns electric. Time stops, starts, rewinds and fast-forwards.

Syaoran feels air force through him with the speed of the wind. He throws his head up, moves frozen limbs to dance, strikes back and hears the satisfying cry of pain from his opponent. It takes two hits before the game is decided; opponent collapsed on the floor and stretched out before him. Syaoran steps back, allows his weapon to clatter to the floor and breathes in a shaky, weary breath.

Sakura stands and stares at him, looks at him, sees him, and Syaoran stares right back.

End.

Comments and crit much appreciated.