This is something that just sort of ... hit me. uruwashii uso (Tsusu, one of my beautiful lovelies) wrote a gift fic for me, called "Makeshift Memories". Please read it from my Favorite Stories. This giftfic is the prequel to this.

I love Tsu, very much. She has inspired me endlessly and never failed to entertain. I hope she likes this, because I have (yet again) stolen her idea for my own profit. XD

Roxas/Sora. Mature. Square-Enix/Disney/Nomura.

Was it possible to dream in a dreamless sleep? Sleep in a sleepless dream? Did coma patients have dreams in between the beeps of the mechanisms they were attached to?

Don't wake me;
don't wake me, please!

Did Sora dream within his chrysalis slumber, perfectly preserved like a museum display?

He did. He stayed there, up to his ankles in the sand, and waited until every day's sunset, when the boy from the too-white town would show up on his beach, would show up in his dreamland. He sat in a fruitful wonderment, suddenly, beckoned only by the breeze and twining of shadows.

"You came." Again.

He knew he shouldn't be here. He knew he had more pressing things to do. (Save Kairi, Save Riku, Find the King, Who is Axel?) But he couldn't shake off the desire to met him, again, under the dying sun, under the hollow moon.

"Huh?"

Company was here now. He wasn't so lonely on the cool nights when the life set and made the sand cold and the palm trees sway sadly. He wasn't so lonely when electricity sparked and crackled between their bodies, hot and moist and more tempting than any sin.

"I've been waiting for you." It wasn't that he was afraid as his feet shuffled forward. Just ... awkward. As many times as this night repeated, he always felt ... different, touched in new places, felt on a new surface of his soul.

"Why?"

It caught him off guard. "I'm ... not sure." He bit his lip and ruffled his own hair, movements his like-eyed partner watched curiously. He was ever-observant like that, noticing his little habits, memorizing them only to forget them in his waking day's activities to be gifted (or cursed) to learn them all over again. "It just feels like I've been waiting for something."

Maybe to wake up.
(Please don't wake me up.)

"The air is different, now that you're here." And it was. It was ... so much thicker, mustier ... easier to breathe in and yet somehow ... not.

He had to touch him, just once, just softly, to make sure he was alive. Oceanic eyes, shifting with emotions and bringing new colors up, following his own line drawn down the blond's jaw. He was captivating.

Captivated.

He couldn't help but frown as his visitor stumbled away, brows furrowed like he was in pain. Sora didn't understand the question that died on his lips, even as he tried to synch, to parallel their hearts in perfect unison.

It ... it was hurting. His heart, when he tried to help him, when he tried to make him feel like he felt. Red skirted around his vision, closing in on him with the spilling of venomous green, and Sora tried to fight, fought so hard for the memories that twined around in the blond's mind.

And he kissed him, frantic to rid him of the memories, reckless to rid him of the pains until he could practically hear the dark, cruel voice on the steeping edge of his subconscious.

"You--... it--... I do this, ...--Roxas?"

Roxas.

R-O-x-A-S.

Roxas was feverish with reminiscence in his arms, weighing on him until the scent was filling his nostrils and clouding his mind and making him taste smoke on his tongue.

"You know--... love it--... scream..."

No. No. Roxas was not allowed to be anyone's but his. Roxas would be his. He wouldn't let these shallow memories cling to his mind, wouldn't let empty promises and blank statements tear at even his own heart. They would not be allowed that justification.

Under his shirt, curious to the skin lighter than his own, touching and testing and trying to bring those sounds to this reality, to this feeling and touch and, oh, god, that face was beautiful when flushed.

Down, down away from that angel face, burning memory kisses into his neck, lips searing on his collarbone and tasting, testing the alabaster perfection.

Need, need, need,
I need this to be real.

As if to confirm the lie, Roxas slid his hands across his flesh, making the nerves fray and tingle beneath every touch, and it was only with delayed realization that he broke contact to pluck off his shirt.

And hands, here, there, there, making his blood boil and heart bound in anticipation, and, ohh, that--that curve that made him bite his lip to keep from making sound.

He ... he didn't know what to do next, looking there into those eyes a deeper depth than his own, hiding treasures beneath the surface: an ocean in the moonlight. He didn't know how to explain, didn't know how to say, "I've never done this before", didn't know how to be a let-down. He hadn't been one before.

"No one would miss me."

"That's not true! ... I would..."

This memory ... hurt. It was so strong and so heavy that he caught every word, making the back of his eyes burn and his mind dizzy. It was only when he saw the blond above him, outlined by that starry night tablet straight out of a painting, that he realized he hadn't fainted.

Those lips were magic, something straight out of a fable that made his body turn weak and powerless, barely able to summon the energy to help in discarding the so-constricting fabric.

For the surely the first time that night, his cheeks went red with heat as the ravenous eyes above him took in every scope of his body.

More--harder--deeper--
as though we were in love.

Digits entangled in the brilliant gold and his own teeth sinking into the side of his free hand reminded him that there was more than just pleasure in this paradise that so explicitly surrounded his mind. That mouth, that heat, that devout contrivance, making him arc and groan and weighed down with the gravity of the moon beneath his want.

His eyebrows furrowed and his mouth lapped at the bite on his hand (somehow mocking the tongue on his fervor), consciousness lost in the lunacy of his great bliss.

But--but he could not be selfish, could not bare to not give and only receive, as he toiled the workings of their bodies and cupped the poor, needy blond.

He felt every inch immobilize under his grip, and, as though in appreciation, his lover (his lover, his lover his lover) gave a deprived and violent-tipped suck to his length, forcing his vocal chords to thrum in gratitude, only to be lost and despondent when that mouth and body moved away.

He opened his eyes in inquiry only to be lofted onto that soft, smooth skin, daybreak eyes on his for reassurance that maybe this was okay, maybe this was right and how it was supposed to be, maybe this was comfort and faith and dreamy courage.

All pain
fades with time.

He wanted to stare into those eyes, he really did, in this passionate moment that even his hazy, dream-induced conscious couldn't comprehend, but ... it hurt. There was no ... anything, no slip, no ease ... only hard friction and dry grating.

The mouth came against his suddenly, almost awkwardly, trying to ease the pain that radiated from an epicenter, trying to make him feel ... better, relaxed, if only for a moment ... Sora had to breathe deep and focus to get his muscles to relax, letting the stagnant pleasure to begin circulating through his limbs again, willing back those wicked tendrils of enchantment.

Hips rocked against his own, making him gasp at that movement inside of him, and again when he couldn't help but throw his arms around his lover's shoulders and silently plead for more.

"--such pretty noises,--" Back to only pieces.

Will your hearts align?

It was more comforting than the kiss when Roxas burrowed his face at his neck and kept his hands firm on his hips, those pleasure-pained kisses pulling at his flesh. He felt that rhythm, the beat stirring between their bodies and he joined the dance by rocking his hips into the motion, riding that length all the way down.

"How loud--... get--?"

As if on a perfect cue of a sick drama, his voice went hoarse with a shout that echoed in his bones.

His nails left angry, red crescent moons in those pallid shoulders before him.

"Roxas..."

"...Sora..."

His body was sated, but his heart ached painfully, as though suddenly rent apart from... from its other half.

He could not wake. He could not dream.

He could not simply desire Roxas back to him. He would have to ... pray, dream so much that the line between reality and reverie would blur. He would have to lose himself in that lie again.

But he could. He would.

He would bring Roxas home.

"Sora. You're lucky. Looks like my summer vacation is ... over."