The Dreams, a kingdom hearts fanfic

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Though if Tetsuya would just fork over the Orgy, I would be all the happier.

AN: Yay for not-romance! (...Well, AkuRoku is implied, but you have to look really hard. XD) This was so much cooler when I had all of their parts in different fonts, because it gave a sense of separation between the sections. Sadly, has only ONE font. CURSES.

This was inspired by the Sandman comic, The Doll's House by Neil Gaiman. Everytime I read one of his comics or stories, I get so inspired! Well, anyway, enough outta me. Enjoy!

A dream…

Time can do a lot of things to half a person. Eventually, the weariness of nonexistence builds and builds until it's nearly unbearable. It's a thing that can tear even a Nobody apart.

But then the night comes, despite the fact that the World That Never Was lacks a lot in sunrises and sunsets, and then it's time to rest. It's time for sleep. And it's a welcome thing.

And upon this night, a very rare night indeed, each of the Nobodies has a dream, and their dreams, good or bad, of the past or of the future, of fears or of aspirations, echo through the empty halls of the empty castle…

Xemnas dreams.

He dreams in neatness and order—his own version, of course, which is the epitome of perfection.

He fathoms he can see of the towers of Radiant Garden reaching high into the sky, glinting in the light, and he can remember the soft glow of dawn as the sun peaks up over the horizon. He can recall, as he wanders further into the dream, the defeat of a former master, one by the name of "Ansem," and he dreams of the resurrection of Kingdom Hearts. He dreams of what it had been like to have a heart in the first place, and it's a wonderful thing. But mostly, he dreams of what it's like to have everything he ever wanted—to be the ultimate master of his own fate.

He bows to no one.

Xemnas does not stir from his slumber, only softly smiles.

Xemnas dreams of power.

And Xigbar dreams.

He dreams in hues of orange and crimson, of an oil painting of a time long past.

He's running across the deck of a ship, and as his hands grapple the siding, he can taste the salt of the sea on his tongue. Gulls shriek overhead. He whirls around to face his first mate and tells him that they'll be heading further to the west as soon as the sun hits the center of the sky above them. Of course, the kid tells him that he should be back at the castle, but he waves it away and tells the first mate that it's none of his business. He bought the boat with his own munny, and he could do damn well what he pleases with it.

He's checking the starboard side when the boat suddenly shudders, and he turns about to see an opposing boat, going at ramming speed toward them. He grins; he's always ready for a good challenge.

He yells to the first mate to prepare the cannons.

Xigbar awakens for a moment, wonders distantly why he can only see in one eye, and then drops back off into slumber.

Xigbar dreams of adventure.

And Xaldin dreams.

He dreams in the dark, of things crawling deep in the middle of the spaces of his mind.

He wanders in the darkness, and he can faintly recall how he had gotten there. Perhaps it had been when he agreed to study the evils of the heart, or when he found the evils in his own, but he recalls falling, deep into the pool of blackness. He can't remember the feeling of sadness, or of insecurity. He's not sure why, but he is not afraid of the darkness into which he has steeped himself. He only knows he's angry, and he can't find a place to direct this emotion. But, then again, is it truly anger that he feels?

…Can he feel anything at all?

He keeps walking, the frustration heightening with each step that he takes into the endless tunnel.

Xaldin does not wake, but he tosses, and he turns, and cannot seem to break himself from the fitfulness of sleep.

Xalding dreams of rage.

And Vexen dreams.

He dreams in neons and xenons, in formulas and equations.

He laughs as the woman asks for his autograph as he passes her by. Why should he give her an autograph? He's just discovered the secrets of the heart, of the truth of memories, and he's about to give a speech to all of his colleagues. They all respect him—they all revere him. Even that snooty Xehanort will have to give him credit for his findings.

And as he's stepping up to the podium, he thinks of all the things he's going to say. He thinks of how hard he worked on all of those theorems, how he got them all precise and pristine, and what he might say to them all to make them understand. Well, they certainly won't be able to understand a thing he says, but he'll say it all anyway, just to make them happy.

Then he's at the podium, looking over the expectant crowd.

Then he blinks—just once, that's all.

And then he hears a noise, a sort of boiling sound, and there before him is a table upon which is resting a pan of water. In the water stews a beating heart, ripped straight from his own chest.

Vexen finds himself staring into the night, and he finds it hard to finally go back to sleep, though it finally comes to him after a length of time.

Vexen dreams of science.

And Lexaeus dreams.

He dreams in small snippets, and yet each one comes together to create a whole, magnificent portrait seen in the gallery of geniuses.

He's walking across the countryside, his blade in one hand and a shield in the other. He wonders if he should be back at the castle, but decides that it can't hurt to go for a short stride through the countryside before returning.

He can see in the distance a lone deer, travelling at a slow enough speed, completely unaware of his presence. He stalks behind, quietly, and though he is a rather large individual, he had long since learned the art of stealth. He considers what they might think if he returns with blood on his sword, but he thinks that even Ansem could appreciate fresh meat for the evening's festivities. Without taking another breath, Lexaeus charges the animal and, with all of his might, swings the sword across the deer's neck.

Lexaeus does not move in his slumber; he simply allows the dream to take over, and his body does not react.

Lexaeus dreams of the hunt.

And Zexion dreams.

He dreams in dust and in letters, creating poetry and prose that speaks to his inner soul.

As he presses his hand to the finely-polished hand-rail, he considers what to read today. He would enjoy a good adventure-story, but considers that the last novel he read consisted of nothing but sword-fights and titans arm-wrestling giants. He wanders into the romance section, but then decides that every love-story is pretty much the same; it's either "happily ever after" or not, and most usually, he can see it coming as soon as he goes into the book ten pages.

He sighs for a moment, and then takes down a science fiction tome. Perhaps flying in space and destroying inter-dimensional space-squids would suit his fancy for the night? Then he passes a hand over another volume, one he had read once when he was much, much younger, about a fairytale princess who had fallen in love with an enchanting prince who, after she had proposed her love to him, turned out to be a fire-breathing dragon.

Zexion chuckles softly to himself, and pulls the covers up tighter around his form.

Zexion dreams of happiness.

And Saïx dreams.

He dreams in sounds rather than sights, and he can hear the call of the twilight, beckoning him forward.

He presses himself into the wind, recklessly, and he can feel the taste of blood in his mouth. He does not consider what this means—only that he must continue onward, until he reaches his goal. He does not consider what his goal is, either, only that once he reaches it, he will know.

And as he races, he can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. He runs on all fours, low to the ground, and he can hear a growl coming from the brush beside him. It is almost too dark for him to see, but as he passes the growling, he feels the sting of teeth latching into his neck.

He struggles, but it is over quickly; he turns on his attacker and immediately rips his belly to shreds with his claws. He in merciless, and as he stands over his enemy as the victor, he raises his head and feels the howl escaping his jaws.

Saïx feels nothing as he dreams, and when he wakes, the visions are gone, and he falls back to sleep as soon as he shuts his eyes.

Saïx dreams of the night.

And Axel dreams.

He dreams in the fire of a distant and eternal sunset, and of the sound the clock makes as it strikes eight.

He looks over to his companion, and he wonders why his chest swells. He can remember the time that they had first met, and ever since then, they had been inseparable. At least, that's what he thinks. He hopes his friend feels the same. And yes, he's sure that he's his friend. Xemnas is wrong. They're friends. There's no other explanation.

He tastes the sea-salt ice cream on his tongue, and as he peers down, he wonders if it would hurt to fall from this high up. Then he looks to his friend, but he's suddenly fading from his view. And as he reaches out, he finds that he only grasps air, and then he's tumbling down to the street below. Yet now he doesn't care- - he accepts his fate, and then hits the pavement.

Axel awakens, sweat covering his body. He places his arms around his knees and pulls them to him, and he doesn't go back to sleep.

Axel dreams of loss.

And Demyx dreams.

He dreams in teal, and in the smell of alcohol, and he doesn't question why he can hear a song he doesn't know playing far away.

He's playing a song on his sitar, and he's looking out over the ocean. A dolphin jumps up to greet him, and a fish swims by his head. He can smell the scent of the briny deep, and breathes it all in, trying to memorize the chords he's playing, as they're probably the best he's ever come up with.

He recalls that his best friend has come to visit him, and he doesn't even have the roast finished. It's not that he didn't remember that his friend was coming, but he's just been so busy lately, and it's not often that people want to come over and hear him play. As a pair of strong arms wrap around his shoulders, and he can't help but feel himself grinning, he looks back out over the ocean.

Demyx is awoken by his own snoring, but falls back asleep pretty easily.

Demyx dreams of the sea.

And Luxord dreams.

He dreams in poker-chips, playing cards, and the wonderful phrase read it and weep.

He has a King in his hand, along with a Two and a Queen, and a Faceless Jack. He knows that if he loses now, he'll have blown his entire savings on failure. And he's not accustomed to failure. It's the last thing he needs now. No, he's come too far to become bankrupt now.

He takes a chance, and throws down the rest of his money, hoping to bluff his opponent into forfeiting the game. However, his nemesis merely flicks the cigar ashes onto the table and shows off a four of a kind.

And he suddenly realizes that he's lost everything.

He couldn't win, even if he cheated.

He never should have come here. He should have just stayed at home. He should have just—

And he's in the gutter, penniless. All of his hopes, all of his dreams—dashed out the window in one heart-stopping instant.

Luxord wants to awaken himself, but finds himself caught up in the dream so real that he cannot.

Luxord dreams of defeat.

And Marluxia dreams.

He dreams in pastels and figures of speech, and in the pleasance of a classical tune playing in the background.

He sits silent in the middle of a garden, and in the morning he shakes away the dew with a smile. And people will pass him and comment his beauty. He's the most gorgeous there ever was, of course, and there's no doubt about this. He's perfection made real. And if people have someone to say about it, he might have a few comments of his own about them.

And as he's basking in the sun one glorious evening, he feels fingers latch about his middle, and suddenly, he can feel blood pouring over him. It seems that the poor unlucky fellow was fortunate enough to catch himself on a most protruding thorn, and the bleeding does not stop. And he watches as the poor fellow bleeds to death, until nothing is left of him but deflated skin and glistening bones.

And he goes back to being beautiful.

Marluxia moans quietly in his dream, but is so entranced by it that he hardly has time to awaken.

Marluxia dreams of control.

And Larxene dreams.

She dreams in the glow of the moonlight itself as she jumps from rooftop to rooftop with stealth and cunning.

It started raining a while back, but she hardly took notice of it. As a streak of lightning breaks the perfectly ebon sky, she finds her target, and can feel the cat-like smirk coming over her features. This was too perfect, too easy.

As the rain begins to cascade down upon her, she melts into the shadows, going over the plan once more in her head. Maybe she is jumping ahead a step, but she believes it necessary to the success of the mission. They will just have to deal with it.

The man has no idea what is about to hit him.

And then she jumps, becomes the air itself, as another streak of lightning comes down from the sky and fills the darkness with pure and unfiltered light.

Larxene is pleased with her dream, and as she rolls over, she imagines she can hear the cry of her victim.

Larxene dreams of victory.

But Roxas… does not dream.

He finds himself awake, and unable to take part in the wonderful worlds that the other members have stepped into.

Instead, he sees the boy—the boy with the key—and he's troubled by these images. He doesn't even see them when he's sleeping. Oh no, they come to him in waking hours, when he should be doing his assignments properly, or when Axel insists on going to Twilight Town, or when he's considering going to sleep.

And he knows these images won't leave him until he does something about them.

And though Roxas does not necessarily dream the dreams of the sleepers, he finds himself dreaming something else.

Roxas dreams of freedom.

The Nobodies will awaken, and with the passage of time, they surely they shall forget all that they had seen. Things will go back to normal, and once more they'll fade into the routine of the nonexistent.

But, for one night, they dreamed, and those dreams filled the empty castle and the empty halls with something other than weariness.