Lost in the Lavender Haze

Sora felt out of time.

He saw Xehanort, and Xehanort saw him. Except he didn't, not really. There was no shock of recognition, no smirk, no condescension, none of the horror of seeing a ghost. What there was, though, was a pause, the slightest of turns, an expression caught and extinguished in a second. It was the look of someone who only thought they saw a ghost but has since learned there was nothing there, the sweet lavender haze of dreams returning to veil them once more from an unfortunate reality.

But, no, there was something. He was sure there was something; a glimpse, the golden edge of curiosity carving a hole in his iris, the polite smile on his face twitching with what might have been—pain? Sora didn't stand out enough in Quadratum to warrant that. A memory of him, whispering below the surface, just might.

He hesitated. People thought him reckless, but the part of him that said go, follow him, talk to him, find out more, balked. Who stood in front of him, if not Xehanort? But what was Xehanort without his memories, his history, his beliefs, his purpose that spanned timelines and worlds?

If he didn't remember, perhaps Sora should let him go; a new person with a new life couldn't be held responsible, could he?

But was it fair to just let him walk away, after everything?

Was fairness the reason he wanted to chase him?

Was responsibility?

Yes. No. I'm alone here. You're the only one from that life. Strelitzia is from another time, but you crossed into mine. You made sure of it, and now...

There was a burning—anger—but it kept strange friends. Confusion and terror, wonder and joy. Joy? How could I be happy to see him?

How couldn't he be, here in this city beyond reality?

All the feelings he knew and the ones he didn't snarled, tangled, became further indistinguishable and then, finally, incomprehensible.

So he hesitated. Took a step forward. Hesitated. Took a step forward.

Hesitated.

Took another step—

The world tilts; people walk sideways, upside down, fall into the air. Buildings bend in a narrowing spiral, their windows burning in a shock of cyan and gold, edges in deepest shadow. An echo. A premonition.

—we know each other a little better now, and isn't that knowing such a dangerous thing?

Xehanort.

And Sora was running, pushing through people without pause. Ten or twenty half-hearted sorries made their way over his shoulder as he shoved, ducked, dodged, stumbled his way down the sidewalk and across the street. The sky above glowered, set its weight upon the city in gloaming clouds of deepest gray, their borders lilac and lavender bruised. Voices muttered warnings, phones were checked for forecasts, lights flashed on despite the hour, and umbrellas blossomed in yellow and blue and red and black and—

He'd stopped to open his; clear white, a sharp contrast to his dark rain jacket, slightly oversized and crinkling. Sora thought he could hear it over the irritated shouts of the street, the hurried traffic, the shop doors opening on hinges and automatic slides as so many bodies sought to evade the promised deluge.

But Xehanort stayed in the street, umbrella a bud not quite in bloom, and Sora reached out and grabbed him.

"Wait!"

He pulled back, of course, which gave Sora a good look at him. Long white hair, brown skin, golden eyes; definitely his younger self, but maybe a few years older than he'd been in their world. His brow was creased, gaze torn between Sora and the threatening clouds just above his half-opened umbrella.

"Can I help you?"

Yes, that was his voice. It was him, it was him. Why was it him? "Xehanort," Sora gasped. He was still winded from the run. That was the reason he couldn't breathe, couldn't stop his heart from beating a mile a minute. "Xehanort, I—"

"How do you know my name?" Xehanort stepped back, took up a defensive stance. One arm came up in front of him, bent protectively. The other gripped his umbrella's shaft. He didn't quite hold it like a weapon—like a Keyblade—but it was a familiar pose. "I've never met you."

I shouldn't say it. "But you have. You have met me." I'm alone here. "Don't you remember?" Please don't remember.

"No, I've never—" He sighed. "Listen, I don't...recall all the people from my classes, and I'd definitely remember you if you worked with me in the lab. I mean, I could afford to get to know them all a little better, but—"

"You don't recall who? No, Xehanort, listen, we're not from here, we're not—"

Xehanort glanced away, tense. Sora's eyes darted after him, tried to see what he saw, hear what he heard. There was an alley next to them, the sky was growling low in its gut, and the tension was so thick Sora thought he might choke on it. Or maybe that was the dream-haze around Xehanort, the one he was sure he could reach through, sunder as lightning, banish as light, and free Xehanort from.

But why do I...

"I—"

"Please, Xehanort." Sora bowed his head. What was he begging for? Why was he interrupting him? The best thing Sora could do was accept his rejection and let him walk away. "I'm just..." He looked up, reached out.

"Sora, don't." A flicker of something. Fear?

All that time I spent fighting you and I still don't know what that looks like on your face.

"You know my name?" He said it in a whisper, but Xehanort flinched anyway. There it was again, though, that curve cut into his eyes. An insatiable, curious gleam. Dangerous.

"I...I know your name." He leaned forward, every line and point of him bent toward analysis, pulling Sora apart with the same scrutinizing gaze that had once led him to drag all the worlds into darkness, that had looked into the collective everything and saw—things Sora couldn't understand. And now it was directed at him, picking and peeling away at his body, his heart, his soul, as if they simply existed to be studied, to be known, and all by him. "Why do I know your name?"

Sora faltered. What could you say to a stranger that had changed your whole life, whose perspective of the world was so entirely incompatible with your own and yet so horrifically comprehensible that you could feel the weight of it in your chest even as you held up that flickering little flame to ward it away, all while never knowing when it would flicker its last and die? What could you say to someone who was, in a way, responsible for almost every connection you had forged, every friendship, every enemy, every place, every line between dots of knowledge and memory, not because he had controlled their making—although he had some—but simply because he rippled like a stone cast into time itself, circles upon circles encompassing everything? And what could he say that despite it all, despite all he had done and all he might do, Sora wanted him to remember, and then he wanted him to forget; not the memories, but the desire. The one which demanded the end of all worlds.

And what could he say to explain that he wanted it to be for him—because of him? No, for...for me. I'm alone, and I need you, because you're here. But I need you to not be you. Not this you, not that you. Not a stranger, a friend, a lover, an enemy. A connection without the weight of a connection. An impossibility. A contradiction.

He wanted all that and more, and also none of it and nothing like it, and he had no idea what to say, no idea what he longed to say, and why he longed so badly it was catching in his throat. He had no idea, and all the while the sky shuddered and rumbled its threats and the clouds began to open their shadowed doors and—

Something slammed into him.

Half his air left his lungs on contact, the rest when his body hit the brick wall. The pain was so loud it blocked out everything else, and in that fraction of a second the world shifted and he felt the cool of metal against his wrists.

Reality came back to him with the sound of twin clicks.

He tugged. There was resistance in the form of a hand on his wrists, but no chain. No chain? But even as he thought it he knew why. There was an absence where a great light should have been, a gaping, agonizing void. The Kingdom Key. One of his last connections to his old life, his old world, his old reality severed. He realized he was shivering, in shock.

"There, that should do it." A man's voice. "Can't have you summoning that weapon of yours while we're seeing to business. Or casting magic, for that matter."

Rage. "What have you—"

"Relax, boy. Sora, right? Hush now, Sora. It's all gonna be okay." A pause. "Well, for us. It's all gonna be okay for us. Can't say the same for you, heh."

Call for help. Call for him. Call—

He opened his mouth and a hand slapped over it, squeezed his jaw, his cheeks, tugged his head back. "Don't even think about it. Besides"—the sky groaned, followed by a series of soft plick, plick, plicks, and then a hiss, and then—"I don't think anyone's gonna be able to hear you over this!"

The rain came roaring down. Sora paled. He's right. It was an absolute downpour. Not quite a monsoon, but close enough that the alley might as well have been on an entirely different world from the street just one step, two steps beyond. The street where several more shadows were waiting, shapes that stepped through the veil of water to reveal men, four of them.

So there's five, he thought, counting the guy holding me.

But the men had made a mistake. Sora didn't need to call for just anyone. He'd been with Xehanort. He could call for...

At the edge of the world, just inside the alley, lay a crumpled umbrella, clear and white. Sora felt ill.

"Mmh—agh! Let go of me, you wretched f—"

Sora turned, pushed against the weight of his assailant—his wall of muscle, his rough hands—just enough to see Xehanort struggling in the grip of the sixth man. He had an arm around Xehanort's chest, the other covering his mouth, then his chin, down to his throat. The light in Sora's chest was stabbed through, flickered.

"You—" His voice came out strangled. He coughed. "Hey, you! You don't need to do anything to him! We're strangers, and he—"

"—knows your name, right?" Another stab, another flicker. The sixth man grinned, made a little gesture with the arm holding Xehanort to his chest; just a twirl, at the wrist. He held something; a black hilt with no blade.

Sora swallowed, had to try his luck. "No, he—"

The moment of his denial the blade hummed to life. A burning red energy burst from the hilt, not magic like Xemnas's, but advanced Quadratum technology. It glowed, steamed in the rain, cut through the gloom and lit Xehanort's face. It swam with fire.

"Don't lie to us, kid." The man with the knife, the man holding Xehanort, the sixth man grinned. "And I think we've had enough violence from the both of you." He tilted Xehanort's head back with the hand on his throat, dug his fingers in deep enough to bruise. "Shouldn't have stepped on my toe."

"My violence!? Don't make me laugh!" Xehanort scowled, squirmed, took another shot at the sixth man's toes. His face twisted. "I don't even experiment on animals! It's all organs-on-chips, brains-on-chips, hearts-on-chips, for pity's sa—kah!"

The sixth man laughed, eased up on his neck. "Pity? Don't think we have any of that." Then he lifted one of Xehanort's arms, pressed the tip of his knife against the fabric of his jacket, and sliced right through it and his shirt to bare his pit. Smiled, leaned in, sniffed deep, licked. Sora gagged and Xehanort froze. "We'll make sure to enjoy yours though!"

"You—!" For a second, Sora saw someone else—someone he knew—in Xehanort's eyes. "Oh, of course you'll enjoy it, you perverse, little nothing. How else could you get someone to fuck you? It really is my pity you're depending on, and when this is over and I have none left you'll regret—"

Slam! Sora winced, tried to shove back with his hips to get free and received a teeth-jarring fist in his back for the trouble. Xehanort stared through him, both the someone he knew and the stranger gone, replaced with the airy gaze of a person that has had their mind shoved back into their body via their head being smashed against a wall. It was one of the fastest ways to remind a human they were only meat in the end.

"Hey, don't! You'll actually hurt him!" He cried, winced, heard the uselessness of it.

"Who cares?" The sixth man said. He had one arm still wrapped around Xehanort's dazed body, the other buried in his pit, fondling, thumb digging deep. "His ass will work fine and his throat will work better if he's nice and relaxed."

Sora's gut dropped and splattered across the ground. The rain was a drone in his ears, in his blood, washing everything away. His knees swayed. "His—you mean you..."

The storm swallowed a shriek, high and harsh. It was his own, dragged out of his body—Is it my body?—as it was smashed and scraped across the wall. His skin split, rubbed raw against the bricks, head held in the flesh of a thick palm. His gaze was torn from Xehanort and turned back to the alley's opening. Despite the rain, he could still see the lights dancing in a bokeh fantasy; gold and white amidst the indigo, the navy, the violet, gray, and black, all abound in taunting lavender. A dream is only an unconsciousness away.

"What did you think we were going to do, kid? Let him go? He's with you, isn't he?" The first man, the man who held him, leaned in. "And we're here to punish you."

"Me?" His heart seized, bile bubbling up into his throat. Were they about to—to Xehanort—because—him? My fault. "What did I—"

"You've been causing trouble for Mister 3D."

The name felt like a slap, silly and farcical. "Mister who? I don't know anyone—"

"Yes, you do." The first man breathed in his ear. "Red 'n' Blue. Pepsi-Cola. Intravenous. You know him."

Sora's body went still even as his mind struggled, flailed desperately for an answer, a clue, for something, anything, to ground him so he could deal with this situation. He reached, reached, felt pressure at his back, and, in a panic, resisted.

Slam!

"—and then I was told to "Save Sora.""

A chill. Please no.

"Are you with Yozora?" He gasped out, still winded, skin stinging from where it had been scraped against the brick. "D-did he order this?"

A snort. "Nah. Just one of the suits that makes use of him. 3D's got the stomach for a lot of things, but not this. Not his style. He's a regular do-it-yourself, would never delegate."

There was muttering among the other four men. "Couldn't be bothered, if I were him."

"S'probably why you're not him."

"Wonder how he survives with all that on his conscience."

"By not having one!"

The six men laughed, a cackle that had Sora's heart pitching forward, scrabbling desperately against his ribs, his muscle, skin, cloth, brick.

I have to get out of here—have to get us out of here. Xehanort might be an enemy but no one deserved this. Besides, he has no memories, no idea why I've dragged him into this, nothing, nothing—save the barest whisper, calling out, drawing Sora closer and closer.

A hum. A hiss. Sora's mind dropped back into the present. The blade. He couldn't lean back, couldn't get off the wall, but with his teeth grit and a wince, he managed to drag his head against it until it could turn. He had to see. He had to know what was happening to Xehanort, had to know if he could help, had to—

He went still.

The sixth man had cut through his clothes, all the layers above the waist. Everything that couldn't cling had fallen, snagged on an elbow, caught on a hip. A scrap of dark fabric remained around his neck; a ring like a collar. But that wasn't what made him freeze. No, it was—

Breasts. Xehanort has breasts. Freed from compression they sagged just slightly, nipples perked in the chill, the fat of them gathering droplets in the rain. He's like Riku. He's... That was his first thought, but then the second hit. Oh no. No no no no!

There was hooting and hollering from every direction and Sora couldn't believe that no one could hear, even with the rain, the thunder, the wind, couldn't believe that no one would come and stop this, come and save them, even just come and call out, ask if everything was alright, just to have done so, just to have tried.

"Well, can't say I expected you to be a cuntboy. That's the term you prefer, right?" The sixth man leaned in closer, head over Xehanort's shoulder, eyes on his chest. The grip on his knife seemed lax. "Or would you rather I called you a gi—"

Sora glanced up in time to see Xehanort's eyes, the rapid calculations, the way they darted between Sora, the other men, the man holding him, the knife, the slick puddles on the ground, the distance between all of them and the alley's opening. Don't! He thought, wanted to scream.

But it wouldn't matter. Xehanort was relentless, even as an amnesiac, even concussed. With no other way out, he would do what he had to. He would go for the knife.

Of course he'd go for the knife! He's the man who tried to—did!—summon Kingdom Hearts, destroyed the worlds, tried to purge everything! You can't stop him from trying, Sora! Why would you think you could stop him?

Because he had to. Because he had. Because he had to believe.

But there was nothing he could do now as Xehanort narrowed his eyes, took a breath.

He drove his elbow back, hard, and Sora watched and writhed as the sixth man staggered, lost his hold on Xehanort, watched as Xehanort kicked backwards, reached for the knife and—

"Ah—!"

The sixth man recovered and dove forward, twisted his fist directly into Xehanort's bare stomach. He followed it with a knee, two, grabbed him by the scrap of collar and dragged him back to his feet. It tore in the process.

"Bitch," he spat. He let go of him only to smack him across the face, then grabbed him by his arms and dragged him. Together they stumbled toward where the rest of the men stood waiting. To Sora, they looked ravenous.

"Think it's time we moved on?" The first man said, adjusting his grip on Sora.

And just like that, Sora was lifted. He kicked wildly, hitting and missing and flailing, throwing his body around as much as he could, and none of it changed anything. He was spun, back pressed to the wall, and this time two of the men—the first one who'd held him and one of the four—held his arms. The weight of their bodies was like buildings. The other three circled, watching eagerly as the man with the knife hefted a winded, disoriented Xehanort and cut through his pants, leaving him bare to his boots.

"Get rid of those," he said, then ignored the three men as they bent to do as he ordered, instead drawing Xehanort back against his chest and whistling. "Wow, what a view."

Sora's eyes betrayed him. They fell from Xehanort's face, caught between delirium and horror, and followed the rain down between the valley of his breasts and over the soft curve of his stomach to a thatch of white hair. Standing as he was, legs being shifted and spread and bent as his boots were removed, Sora couldn't help but see his fat clit, his cunt with its thick folds, the dark promise of his hole. In the rain, it already looked a little wet.

Something twitched in his pants. Sora felt sick. Then he felt sicker. This can't be happening.

But it was. He pushed and pushed and pushed against the hands holding him, the bodies, threw himself, tried for some leverage off the wall, but all he got for his effort was more laughter and the occasional boot crushing his feet through his shoes. There was nothing he could do as Xehanort was held, bare and sodden, in the sixth man's arms, nothing he could do as the pull of a zipper pierced the rain and sliced through his brain, nothing he could do as the head of a cock, hard and red, slipped between Xehanort's legs and slapped up against his folds.

He panicked.

He pleaded.

"No, no no no no no, please don't do this! Please! Yes, I know him, I'm sorry I lied, but he's got nothing to do with Yozora and I, and he—he doesn't deserve"—even after everything, no one deserves—"this!" Everything was burning. His throat, his eyes, every scrape and cut, muscle and bone. "It's all my fault, it's all mine, my fault. Please, just, do it to me, I'll—"

"—have my turn later, is how that sentence ends. But hey, if you're feeling so guilty about all this..." And he pushed Xehanort forward, dragged him stumbling and pressed his naked body up against Sora's own; wet skin on soaked fabric, Xehanort's head bowed against his neck until a harsh hand jerked it upright, made sure Sora could see his rain-slick face. His cheeks were dark, breath steaming huffs in the rain, his pupils eclipsed by his irises. The dark swallowed the light. "...Why don't you look him in the eye and tell him you're sorry?"

"And make sure you do it with every thrust!"

Sora stared at Xehanort. Xehanort stared at Sora.

"I'm sorry," Sora whispered.

"It's too late," Xehanort said.

A chill ran down Sora's spine. He knew that voice.

But then the man thrust inside and Xehanort screamed. Sora didn't know what he said, what little comfort or terror or begging or rage vomited out, but it wasn't sorry. All words were lost between them as a punishing pace was set and committed to, Xehanort scrabbling at Sora's chest and shoulders, Sora leaning closer but unable to get free. The other men were making a cacophony that was somehow still not loud enough to escape their horrid little world; reality bound to this place, all the rest gone and faded into blissful sleep. It wasn't even night, just afternoon leaning into dusk, but the world was full dark save for those distant lights bleeding through the rain; artificial, but in Sora's delirious gaze still flickering like flames against the moment.

Nothing changed though. Dark blanketed and light flickered and nothing changed, and when nothing changed Sora felt the fight begin to drain away, dripping with the rain as he stared down at Xehanort bumping up against him. His hair had been released and his head now hung, pale strands clinging to his face. In the distance, Sora thought he could hear men masturbating. The world narrowed, bent inward.

Xehanort's head slipped against his neck, expression obscured, but that hid little. Sora looked down and could still see his breasts pressing up against him, rubbing against his clothes, nipples catching on his pendant's chain. There was something so wrong about it. He almost wished he were naked too, just so he couldn't see it, the contrast, what the other men saw.

But he could. He could see it. And with every solid slap of skin against Xehanort, his body swayed and his stomach pressed against Sora's cock.

He twitched again, again, rose. Sora had never felt lower.

I'm sorry. 

He could hardly stand the way Xehanort rocked against him, his bitten-off whimpers, the wet squelch barely concealed by the rain. Blood, and other things, or at least he hoped so for Xehanort's sake. Whatever the humiliation, his body doing whatever it could to make this easier had to be better than a dick scraping against his dry insides. Still, he hated the part of himself that seemed glad to hear the sound for other reasons, his own cock hard against his pants, against Xehanort. He despised it. He wanted to cut it off.

If I can get that part of me away from him, then maybe...maybe it'll be better. 

There wasn't much else he could do. So he tried, shifted his hips, wobbled a little against the damp ground. His body was sore in places and ways he did not yet understand. He was so fragile here in Quadratum, the bodily violence of this unreal world somehow more tangible than it had been back home. His foot slipped, arms trapped, unable to balance, and then his leg slid out and forced its way further between Xehanort's own—

No!

—and up against his pussy. Sora's heart stuttered. He could feel it; the coarse, rapid slide of a man's dick into Xehanort's body. There was a gasp against his neck. It was different from all the others.

The pounding continued, but now with every rock forward Xehanort's clit slid up his leg, pussy and the cock inside it grinding along behind. Sora's heart hammered, found the rhythm of Xehanort's and followed; increasingly frantic, increasingly...

There was another gasp, so quiet, accompanied by a swirl of the hips. It was subtle, but Sora couldn't miss it. He felt the shift, the pressure, the weight of Xehanort every time he was fucked, over and over, as if he were chasing something. Sora didn't know what to do, didn't know if he could help. He couldn't stop his leg from shaking. On the next thrust, when Xehanort ground down, he pushed up against him, and Xehanort had to strangle his moan. Sora could feel him tense against his throat. He flinched, whispered, "Was that wrong?"

"Tch." Xehanort curled against his body, set his cheek against his neck, lips against his ear. He was so close even the rain could not conceal his words. "I don't want to give them the—satisfaction," he groaned, grit his teeth. "But there is no denying that th-this is happening. And it...it hurts. I want it to—ngh—hurt less. You are making it hurt less."

Everything fell; Sora's face, his stomach—how many times could his guts grind against the pavement?—his heart into the empty pit it left behind, a tear from the corner of his eyes. But he tried to be brave, sniffed it back, clung to the edge of everything and put his mouth to Xehanort's hair. "Okay, okay, I can help. Just let me—"

"—help you both!"

Sora was pushed, stumbled into Xehanort who in turn stumbled into the man behind him. That man swore, shot a glare at his companion. "Watch it!"

"I've had enough of watching you fuck that one!" The man—the first man, the one who had held him against the wall and now pushed him—jerked a thumb in Sora's direction. "Aren't we supposed to be punishing this guy? You're just giving him a show!"

"Fine, whatever, here"—and the dark hilt of the knife passed over their heads, Sora's brain running too slow to have a chance of catching it, Xehanort snarling at their shared miss—"take this if you're so eager to give him a dressing down."

Could Sora's heart beat any faster? He tried to step back, push away, but he couldn't seem to drag Xehanort with him and his hands wouldn't let him go. You need to let him go to help him. You can't help him if you don't. But his thoughts were too frantic and his body sluggish, moving as if he were at the bottom of the sea, and by the time they'd caught each other the first man had the knife at his throat, glowing red and curling steam. His hands still hadn't let go of Xehanort.

"You know, it's a good thing these suppressors are sort of sexy," the man said, nodded at the silvery manacles around his wrists, then at his pendant. "You can keep that. I like a boy in chains."

There was a hiss and the knife sliced down, a slash from neck to groin. First the front, then the back, Sora's clothes reduced to tatters in seconds. His cheeks flamed, burned hotter still when the man kicked his foot out from under him and someone grabbed it, jerked him around as they worked off his shoe. He tried to hop back, away, desperate to keep the other. Instead, he slipped against Xehanort, who was still being fucked, and lost it.

Well you got what you wanted! Some hysterical part of his brain cackled. You're both naked now! Does it help!? Have you helped!? Well done, Sora!

The knife was back at his throat. His other shoe had vanished. Something hot and hard pressed against him. A sound escaped his throat, pathetic, terrified.

"He's gonna be too tight without lube." It was one of the other four; the voyeurs. "You can tell by the look on his face. Probably a virgin."

"Blood's no good," another added. "Tried it before." Sora disconnected from the world just a little more.

"Well, how about this?" And the man behind Xehanort—fucking Xehanort, raping Xehanort—reached down between his legs and rubbed. Sora could feel it, coarse and rough, fingers pushing in alongside his cock. Xehanort grimaced, but made no sound. Then the man removed his hand and shoved it toward the first one, dripping with blood and slick and, rapidly, rain. "It's not a lot, but what's good for the pussy is good for the prick!"

"And the ass, we hope!" There was laughter, and then the fleshy, wet sound of someone stroking a dick. Sora tried not to dig his nails into Xehanort, really tried, but his hands were shaking so much they hurt, his whole body wet with cold and fear and hot with pleasure-pain. He felt a hand on his ass. It groped his cheek, spread him, then something hard and full of blood and heat pressed against his hole. He seized.

Please no, please—

"Settle down, boy."

The words pierced to his heart; a different voice, the same voice. Sora blinked, felt the world's hold on his body go loose as he stared down at Xehanort. The familiarity should have concerned him, terrified him even, but instead there was only comfort; the susurrus of waves, fingers on a ship's controls or Cid's old hunk 'o junk, a sprig of lavender under his pillow for sleep. 

"It's too late to change this," the voice said, pitching on a violent thrust. The body that Sora held now held him, nails against ribs, against the crown, against the heart. "You'll have to see it through. We'll have to."

We'll. Us. Together.

A cock slid to the balls in Sora's body. Xehanort kissed away his scream.

There was no pity, although one of the voyeurs did push his nose into Sora's pit at some point and start sniffing, licking. He didn't stick around long, couldn't with the pace of both the first man and the sixth man, and Sora couldn't spare a thought for him as he scrabbled desperately at Xehanort, groping for a hold, for a hand, for anything. Teeth were clicking and bodies sliding and panic, panic, panic, his vision was going, narrowing, spiraling into that darkness, and then there was Xehanort pressing their foreheads together and hissing, "I may not be much of a leader in your eyes, but follow me anyway."

But though there were the words, there was nothing else in his eyes; no glint like the one from before, no cut in the iris, nothing. But then there were the studied glances, the taking of notes even on the edge of darkness, a different sort of curiosity; the thing that Sora had put there, that had made him pause and wait, that was the reason he was being hurt now. It's my fault, my fault, my fault—

"Sora. I said to follow me." Sora's mind stopped and he listened, and then, understood. He felt Xehanort's hands on him, one tangled in his chain, the other gripping his chest, drawing him closer, refusing to let him go. "We'll do as I was doing."

Sora shivered. Trapped between and taken by these men, Xehanort would still try to hold him. His lips would keep secret both his screams and his moans, would contain everything Sora couldn't; the pain, the bereavement of being ripped from his body and then violently shoved back into it as a stranger, the horror as feelings shifted, as flesh grew accustomed to rough treatment, to the pummeling of cock, as pleasure began to take its place and steal what was left of him.

Pleasure from this?  No, yes, no, yes, please no. Not from this...

Yes, from this.

The world grew just that little more cloudy. There was thunder somewhere in the distance. It seemed so quiet compared to what was happening inside him, outside him, around him. He held on to Xehanort, and Xehanort held on to him, and they kissed. When Xehanort angled his hips, Sora followed, and their bodies ground together and turned that thick and stinging ache into something sweeter, something to keep them from panic, from darkness, from oblivion. Or was this oblivion?

His lips are...

Sora was so lost in them that he only noticed when the man fucking Xehanort was finished because the thrusting paused for a moment. It made little difference. He was swiftly replaced by one of the voyeurs, eager to have a turn. He felt when the man behind him was done. He came inside him—gross—the final few pumps of his hips rougher than the rest. He pulled out and left semen dripping down his legs. It really was gross, but he supposed he had to be grateful there was very little blood.

And yet, for all it was vile, sticky, tacky, unwanted, unasked for, with Xehanort kissing him, caressing his chest, just under his arms and along the bumps of his ribs down the side of his body, it almost seemed...

The man behind him was replaced. Sora thought he saw the knife change hands, just the hint of a glow, but he couldn't be sure. He wondered if he would notice when it disappeared, sinking as he was into this hazy state.

It still hurt. Everything still hurt. He was hurting, and ashamed, because he had started to enjoy the fullness, the pressure inside him. It was one of the worst moments of his life, but he was also wrapped in someone else's arms, in Xehanort's arms, and they held him through it. He wasn't alone, he wasn't alone, but there were none of the expectations that accompanied that, not here, not anymore. He had nothing to live up to, no one to be compared to or have to pretend to be happy for. There was fault—

I could take that from you.

—but Xehanort would take that from him? No, he couldn't. I wouldn't let him. But something sweet sung in his stomach and echoed into his chest knowing that he would try. It was a feeling that had him groaning into his mouth, one hand coming up to cup Xehanort's breast, the other rubbing hard against his nipple. His body felt good against his palm, rain and sweat and supple skin, the soft sag of him. Xehanort's hand, in his hair, now slid until his arm wrapped around his neck. The other glided over his stomach and hip, caressing, drops of water turned to rivulets and streams, cock and clit slipping, kissing, spilling over each other as they were rocked together.

Rocked, rocked, rocked to sleep. The lights and their glow—such sweet, soft colors, none sharp, none cutting or carving—the rain, the lavender haze. He looked into Xehanort's eyes and saw...something, someone, but whoever it was he was slipping too.

You took away the emptiness.

And you'll love me for that. And you'll hate me for that. The feelings echoed, rippled, fell and shattered, drained like sand in an hourglass from one side to the other, and somehow, Sora knew. You will love me. You will hate me.

As the curtains of this world closed, another's opened. Sora held Xehanort and crossed into it with him.

He lost track of time, of how many times he'd been fucked, of how many men had fucked him. The more Xehanort touched him, the more the pain seemed to go away, a Cure he could not recall leaking through his fingers and into Sora. Instead, there was only satiety, that fullness transformed into something he could hold inside him, around which he could squeeze when pleasure shuddered through him; when his fingers groped Xehanort's chest, when his lips parted for his tongue, when a string of saliva caught between them, clinging, connecting them each time they parted for air in their watery world. He was so pretty, so wet, cheeks red, pale hair sticking to his dark face in curlicues. His eyes were darkness around which that flicker of light danced. 

Their legs were slippery with rain and semen and Xehanort's slick. The blood had likely long washed away, leaving them with nothing but forceful thrusts that pressed their cocks together in a pleasant slide, each nameless man offering a different speed, an altered tempo. They didn't matter. Of course they didn't matter. They were terrible people, and if Sora could only summon his Keyblade—

Would I? He was so close; so close to Xehanort, so close to the precipice, so close to his precipice, their precipice, judging by the sounds Xehanort was making into his mouth. They were shared, gasped as one, given like gifts to the other.

"I f-feel close," Xehanort choked out. There was laughter somewhere. Sora barely heard it.

"Me too," he breathed. His throat opened to gasp, clenched to moan.

"To darkness. Darkness." Xehanort's eyes widened, lips rounding. "To light, to darkness. But it's not empty, not empty anymo—"

"You're right it's not empty!" A smack, loud in Sora's ears, swallowed by the rain. Xehanort cried out, leg jerking up to Sora's bare hip as if he thought he could get away from the pain. Maybe he could. Sora's hand flew down, covered his ass, took the second strike. He hissed through his teeth, gripped the skin, dragged him closer. "Aw, look at that!"

"I thought you guys were strangers?"

"Not anymore, looks like!"

"I mean, ain't nothing stranger than getting off to this."

Sora heard, but did not feel. He did not feel because all his feelings were taken up with the look on Xehanort's face, the tension in his stomach, the pounding in his hole, the twitching of his cock. Xehanort writhed, the skin around his eyes creasing, mouth gaping.

"Can't—control—"

"It's okay, it's okay," Sora whispered against his lips. It felt good to comfort. "You can let go."

"—what you're not—aware of—"

Xehanort's eyes went frantic; dilated and darting, unable to hold on to anything until Sora let go of his ass and took his face in his hands. He leaned in close, lips parting as if to speak, but couldn't. He couldn't. Their worlds were in sync. They were wordless, breathless despite their breath coming quick.

Coming. Coming. Coming.

They came. Sora's vision blackened at the edges, everything gone to static in the rain. The only thing he could still make out was Xehanort's open mouth. All we did as enemies and I never saw you in ecstasy. He was beautiful; choking on his pleasure, whimpering, chest taut as he bent backward, eyes fluttering, half-shut. His cheeks were glowing and wet and his hair embraced every curve and ridge of him, hung like a sodden veil. It was all Sora needed. He clenched down hard, the sweet heat in his gut emptying onto Xehanort's stomach, joining with Xehanort's slick down their thighs, Xehanort's squirt as it spurted from his cunt, all hot, so hot, so warm in the rain. Too hot.

He glanced down and saw a golden stream of piss running down Xehanort's legs, splashing onto his own, trailing down with the slick and thick strands of cum, forming another puddle for them to slip in. Was it fear? Pleasure, desperation? How long has he been holding it in? And now he's let it out for me. Oh, Xehanort...

Another pulse, a throb in his gut, more strings of sticky white across Xehanort's belly and bush, the bottom of his breasts. They were covered in each other. They covered each other. Xehanort collapsed against him, sank to his knees, and Sora laid shaking hands on his shoulders. The men stood and watched them. He barely noticed their grins.

Sora lost time.

For a moment he floated, eyes on Xehanort, watching from a distance as he took Sora's spent cock into his hand and then into his mouth. Sensitive, too sensitive. He whimpered. More laughter, but not their own so it didn't matter. His world had narrowed to the man on the ground crouched in his own piss, swallowing Sora down with such care. It was pain. It was pleasure. His tongue was gentle. Sora cried out, but he couldn't come again, not so soon.

That was fine. He could see that Xehanort did not mind, that his eyes, lost in the dream, still swam with that ever present curiosity; an eternal studiousness, an unrelenting desire to understand and know that drove him until he cracked open the world and revealed its truth. He's in medical research. Sora realized he hadn't been surprised and still wasn't. Imagine him going to fancy classes. The thought came and went, lost to the storm, lost because although it pertained to Xehanort, it wasn't Xehanort.

He didn't know when he got on the ground. Did one of the men push him? He found he didn't care. He was on his hands and knees, mounted, body pounded forward onto another cock with every thrust. His jaw ached, but he liked it. He hadn't realized how empty a body was until someone had pressed inside his. Now and then someone put a dick into his hand or under his arm or along his hip or his back or his thigh. Sometimes they licked the crease of his elbow, over the manacles at his wrists, tongued the skin under his chain. Someone jerked hot spurts of cum across his body, then someone else, then someone else. Sometimes it was on his face or chest, other times his legs, his ass, his feet. Often, they came inside his holes. He had no idea how many times they exchanged him.

Maybe that was because his eyes strayed always to Xehanort. He watched as they mounted his cunt, his ass. He felt a spark of panic, but there was no pain on Xehanort's face, in Xehanort's body; just a flicker, once, but then it was gone, cured in an instant. They were truly lost, but they were together, still together, watching one another even as they were fucked apart.

And he was beautiful. Suspended between two cocks, a third clenched in his hand or shoved against the sides of his breasts, between them, fucking into his pits or under his chin, he was beautiful. Showered in sticky white, he was beautiful. With his hair held and dragged, he was beautiful. His eyes were most beautiful; golden smears of water, rippling with rain, placid until every now and then Sora caught a gleam of scale; something underneath, breaching more and more frequently as he was manhandled, pushed, shoved, fucked. But most often when those eyes found their way to his.

And they always did, even when Sora's hair was pulled, yanked, gaze forced away by the barked demands of a man who had chosen not to matter, who sought to keep him 'on task'. Even when Xehanort was slapped for his distraction, condescended to by a man who had never bothered to understand a thing in his life and never would. And so they both sucked, pressed their noses into thick pubic hair and sniffed deeply, fondled balls, dragged their tongues down the length and minded their teeth and shuddered as it penetrated their throats—and looked back to each other.

He was lucky to see him like this. Am I? He was lucky to feel this with him. Am I?

He knew they were being raped, but he was so tired and so broken and so lonely and so scared, in the here, in the now, and he didn't want to be any of those things, so he met the gaze of his old enemy, and he drowned in him and didn't care what else was happening, let all those things be carried away by the wind and water.

Beyond the alley, he glimpsed a lavender haze of lights in the rain.

Sora had no recollection of when a man lifted him up to fuck him standing, nor when Xehanort rose onto his knees to take a cock in his mouth and one in each hand, but he did recall when they were dumped on the ground into puddles of rain and slick and come, blood and piss all washed away. Sora could not make out what the men were saying, his arms trembling. If he lost the heat, it would be too cold.

"We could have one last—"

"Eh, they're getting kind of sloppy—"

"—only fun if they're crying about it—"

"To be honest, I just want a shower now."

"One last round!"

"Might as well end on a—"

A quiet splashing. A shape lurched through the rain. Sora rose off his hands to sit back on his knees and stared. Xehanort moved on all fours, dragging his shaking, exhausted body across the alley. His hands and feet and legs were spattered with mud and murky water and all manner of bodily fluids; mirrors to Sora's own. He ached, Sora was sure, because he ached, but it was an ache that shivered sweetly in Sora's bones and trembled softly down Xehanort's spine. He crawled, and crawled, and then he stopped. He was only a short distance from Sora, head facing away, still positioned on his hands and knees. Rain danced off his body and rippled around him. Then Sora saw two fingers peek out from between his legs, one on each side of his labia. They dug down and spread.

There was so much cum, long trailing strands of his own wet, droplets of squirt that had yet to be washed clean. The white hair that framed him was thick with it, strands clumping around his still erect clit, his swollen cunt. Sora stared. Then Xehanort glanced back over his shoulder, just for a second, and parted bruised lips.

"Take away...the emptiness."

And Sora did. He crawled over, recalled the weight of so many lives—how many people have I known that have gone empty, felt empty, been emptied, and I've filled them back up—but understood there was a difference. Right now, he was empty too; a new sort of empty, an empty he might have never been before. Sora and Xehanort, Xehanort and Sora, stranded in this strange world in stranger circumstances. Together, we won't be empty anymore.

There were legs around them, so many, too many, distant voices drowning in the rain. Sora felt certain the way he had when he'd thought Nobodies were really nobodies that he could just let them sink, sink, stop. But they don't matter. What mattered was the cold skin of Xehanort's body and the warm blood thundering underneath as Sora pulled himself on top of him. He wrapped one arm tight around his chest in an embrace and pressed his cheek against the back of his neck. Then, with his other hand, he guided himself inside.

I'm not alone. You need me and I need you.

Xehanort burned. Sora's dick slipped through that heat, pushing out—and deeper—the other men's leavings. It didn't matter. The only thing that was important was Xehanort's moan, the trembling of his body as Sora gently thumbed his nipple with the hand that held him, the other sliding up to Xehanort's little cock and squeezing it between his fingers, massaging it with two.

Then they were fucking. Sora drew his energy from exhaustion and agony, the tiny flicker of light, the shelter of darkness, and channeled it into the shallow thrust of his hips. He didn't want to leave that safe place inside him, the physical boundary between them breaking as Xehanort's cunt circluded and enclosed him, drew him deeper into that space that called him. He trusted Xehanort to hold them up on his shaking arms, let his own fingers continue to caress his breasts, moaning when Xehanort moaned, whimpering with him. His fingers, then his palm, ran down his clit, over the head, through the folds and over their connection; connection, connection, connection.

He was properly wet this time, pussy soaking, squelching. Sora hoped it was more than physiology, more than just time and orgasms and the body desperately trying to protect itself. Desperate, desperately, I need—I need—

Don't leave me!

Sora pressed kisses to Xehanort's neck, along the knobs of his spine, nosed into his soaked hair and smelled his sweat, the rain, the heavy musk of sex. He leaned over his shoulder and laid his cheek against Xehanort's, caught a glimpse of precious gold in his peripherals and lost himself in the swirling pool, submerging even as the gleaming thing began to break the surface. His hips snapped faster, then fucked deep and held there, rubbed all those places inside Xehanort that made him clutch and convulse, for his pleasure, for Sora's. He struggled to keep his rhythm through every squeeze and pulse.

Far away, there was the noise of hands fisted around cocks, slick and dripping. Half-heard remarks floated and were lost.

"Look at them go!"

"Guess you really can fuck 'em 'til they like it."

"Bitches in heat, the both of them."

"Wasn't this meant to be a punishment?"

"We can always take them back and do it properly!"

"I'm just gonna get paid and then get outta there before 3D finds out. Can appreciate the show though, haha!"

Sora clutched Xehanort as his arms gave out, took the trust he'd given and now shared it, followed Xehanort's lead as Xehanort bent his upper body, head now cradled against Sora's palm, breasts swaying, nipples grazing the pavement, the puddles, ass held up against Sora and cunt holding on to his cock. The voices washed away entirely. They had each other, and that was all that was needed here. Sora set his face alongside Xehanort's and brought him closer, closer—

We'll go together. It was another precious moment, another precious love, another life. He'd lost—escaped, lost, escaped—lost it all, even his wanting, but now he wanted again. They were two opposing halves; one shining, one hidden in shadow, in struggle. Who am I? Which am I? What am I? Their cheeks melded, Xehanort's back to his chest tacky-soft and clinging. I need another weight in my heart. It hurts to hold, but I need it. Go, stay, go, stay. I'll go to you. I'll go into you. Stay with me. I'll make you come, I'll fill you up.

Connect, connect, connect.

Xehanort gasped, choked, breath coming too fast, steaming in the rain. His body was alight, a heat that was both drained from and shared with. His lips slid against Sora's palm. "I'm—I want—I don't want—I don't—know. I know, Sora, I know you." A shocking flash of gold, a flash of darkest maw. "Sora, Sora. No, no! It was new. I was new, Sora—but I have to know, Sora—but I was new—Sora!"

Sora drew back, felt the tiniest fragmenting, fear a knife with its blade held against that taut, tentative connection. "Xehanort?" He whispered. Xehanort cried out.

"Don't stop, no, don't stop! Don't leave me. I won't go back to sleep. I won't be empty. I won't. I can't. I know. Come, Sora. Show me. Show me...the world...your world..."

Sora wound around him, close as he could get, heard what he wanted to hear. "I've got you," he breathed, holding tight. "I'm with you." You're not alone. I'm not alone.

"Your voice. I can hear it. Your heart—against mine. But only on the threshold." Xehanort's voice broke.

It was the only place you could hold me; the only time. Did I want you to?

"Xeha—nort?"

"Sora." It was barely a word, barely a sound, everything strangled with pleasure and pain. "Please. Inside. Give it...to me."

Sora didn't know what he asked for, but he babbled out pathetic little noises in response, promises he longed to keep, meetings he wanted to make. I'm here, I'm here, you're here. I'm holding you, you're holding me. We'll go into that world together.

Xehanort's cunt convulsed hard, his cock twitching against Sora's fingers as his whole body went rigid. For a single moment, gold and black were awash in oblivion. Sora gasped, emptied all of himself inside, emptied the emptiness and the fullness both. He held on so tightly, head laid against Xehanort's rain-kissed back, palm still holding his face as silent, gaping lips brushed the barest caress against his skin. Shivers ran through both their bodies; conjoined, connected.

I was the empty world.

They spiraled through all time. The whooping and cheers, the strings of cum, the rain, the grit of concrete, it all meant nothing. Everything folded in and spread out, the world bending toward its center and beyond its constraints; the false, the real, dark and light brushing the edge of the void.

His heart slowed, slowed—

He blinked in hours, in seconds, both. Around Xehanort, there was a shroud of cyan light.

"Stop."

Sora stopped. The world stopped. The rain, every minute drop, every circling ripple in a puddle, every shadow dancing through from the lights beyond, and the lights themselves. All the men went still; some half-tucked, most with their hands still wrapped around their cocks. They looked ridiculous, and it sent a shock of humiliation through Sora, a question lancing his gut. How could I have been used by them? How could I have tolerated it? Enjoyed it?

But then his thoughts stopped, halted by the light and a sound; a Keyblade summoned.

Sora did not see it happen. One moment, the alley was full of men, and the next there was the swish and crack of a whip, bright energy, and then disorienting shapes dissolving into piles of blackened ooze. Flesh was rendered and returned to shadow, to darkness, maybe even to nothing in this land of unreality. The rain shattered around him. A knife hilt fell and was swallowed. Xehanort's body had vanished from under him, and his manacles were gone.

The manacles...?  His mind, pushing through the storm of years, looked down to see silver streams on the ground, circling and sucked deep into the darkness at the bottom of a murky puddle. At a distance, he could feel that great light, that love, that warmth, and he wished he could feel more in return knowing that a most precious friend was back by his side. But right now, what I need is...to know where...he is...

The rain resumed, sliced droplets flying outward and the downpour drowning the world. Sora, still kneeling, turned. Stared.

At the opening of the alley stood Xehanort, Keyblade in hand, its hourglass charm swinging. His naked body was framed by that bokeh glow, all the colors a border bleeding inward, the rain a veil. Fog swirled at his feet, sometimes concealing, but always parting again. Light and shadow flickered; indigoes and yellows and blues sinking, shifting, shaping, until eventually they swathed him in the sweetest lavender haze.

His Keyblade vanished. Xehanort lifted the hand that had held it, snapped his thumb and middle finger. Darkness adorned him and then just as swiftly faded, leaving in its place a black coat.

Sora's heart fell and kept falling, caught in its forever dream of plummeting from sky into ocean into sky into ocean. Everything slipped away; heart, soul, body, the whole world. He opened his mouth, clutched at his pendant, at his naked chest, with his scraped and bleeding hands. There was a sound, a scream, a wail building in his throat, bulging outward, choking—

Xehanort turned, just a little. The light caught his face and Sora glimpsed its edge, the soft crease at the corner of his eye.

"I was the empty world. For just a moment, Sora, I was the empty world. But not anymore."

Sora's heart, brittle, cracked, empty, emptied, drifted away in little pieces. Every time the last had fallen, another crumbled, dropped to the ground.

He could hear it in Xehanort's voice, the longing—the desperation to return to that empty place, that blank purity, the anguish at being torn from its embrace, the sleeper—and the leaving—the refusal of ignorance, the pursuit of knowledge, the desire to be awakened, the seeker. He heard the cry of the threshold, the collapse of the boundary, the dissolving of the binary; the false and the true, the light and the dark and oblivion, the existence and the nothing, the one thing that would destroy the other.

"It was the only place you could hold me; the only time." Xehanort said, then, even softer, spoken to himself and almost lost to Sora, "Did I want you to?"

A pause. Sora shivered. Xehanort turned just that little more, revealed a greater sliver of his face; cold, but not from apathy. Frozen, then, in some sort of fear.

"You took away the emptiness."

"...it's my fault?"

Had he spoken? He couldn't hear himself. He felt the distance between them—a few feet, a crevasse that spanned worlds—slide up against that fragile, taut tie of connection. Alone. I'm alone. And it's my fault.

"No," Xehanort said. "No more than it is mine." He smirked, but it lacked smugness, spread across a blank foundation. "Fault, and all its bitter isolation; I could take that from you. I already have."

Sora wasn't sure, didn't know. He looked at him, really looked at him. From his guts on the ground and his heart in vertigo, there came a horrid thought.

"Did you want this?

"..."

"Did you..." Sora choked, just another wet sound lost in the deluge, dropping from his lips like rank water from a gutter. Too many feelings. There were too many feelings. "Did you plan this? Did you know somehow that I—that we would be—"

"No!" Too firm. Sora swayed back, the intensity of anger and sorrow flooded out in an instant by something, something—"I didn't plan this. But time is a prison and this is our destiny within it, Sora. You said I couldn't control it. We have others that share our souls, our lives, our hearts, but still there is us, and when we come together..." For a second, there was only pain. So many faces laid over his own: old, young, Heartless, Nobody, features of Terra, features of Riku, features of countless Replicas, and him, so many of him, his life's tragic trajectory demanding a thousand shadows of this one man. But then he smiled through the pain, and it looked so familiar Sora felt something shrivel inside. "I didn't plan this. You stepped forward first and you know why. But I can make sure it happens again."

What? Sora's nails dug into his arms, skin stinging as new slices crossed and covered up the marks of his recent abuse.

"B-but"—his voice broke—"why wouldn't you stop it? If you're going to meddle with time, why wouldn't you—"

"Because it would always—"

"—it could be different—"

"No, and you know why it couldn't—"

"Xehanort—"

"—you know—"

"—please, stop, I—"

"—you always would have—"

"Yes!" Sora shouted, raged, felt everything tense, everything hurt. "Yes, I know! I know I'd step forward! I know it was me the first time. I know, I know it was me."

"And you know what you wanted."

For you to remember, Sora thought, and then forget. Not your old life, that we shared, but your desire to do what you did. I wanted to change you, to save you, because you're the only one that I couldn't—a lie, because I've never really saved anyone—the only one that I can't. And I'm nothing here and nothing now. I'm alone. I need to hold someone. I'm empty. I need someone to do something for me. Fill me. You're the one that could do that. The only one? I don't know. No. But you're the only one that could do it your way, the only one that would matter this way, the one that would matter in your way.

But the empty world and the world that was full could not exist together. If the curtain between them was torn down, then the one that was true would drown the other. Dark spread, swallowed, sheltered, light flickered, flooded, flamed, but oblivion erased all.

"Why this way..." he said, finally, strangling his shame. "If you're going to wake up, why not try and find another way? Why make sure I step forward?"

There was a pause. Did you already answer that? His mind wandered back through questions of waking and sleeping, emptiness and fullness, countless shades of color, fault, fault—

"There is no one answer," Xehanort said. "But you should already know, Sora, that the world would find another way to bring us together in violence. It is our fate. Do you really think anything else could have awakened me, could have served as a reminder of the world's truth? Do you really think anything less could have brought us to each other, brought us together, could have shown us the pain and pleasure that only exists when we are close?"

Sora flinched away from that word: pleasure. More shame ran through him, but almost, for a second, in that glimpse of Xehanort's eyes, he thought it was a shame shared. There was a want, a desire for what that step forward meant for both of them, at what they had found in each other, in this moment, in this place, in the embrace of someone that wasn't a friend or ally or coworker or associate or even a true stranger. It was something that could perhaps only be found in the arms of a once-enemy, maybe—

—an enemy again?

He hoped not. He hoped that this was a reality in which he could be the one to offer a boy with silver-pale hair his hand and have him take it. He hoped that this was a reality in which the things shared strengthened the tie and did not sever. He hoped this was a reality in which he could save.

He hoped... He hoped...

He tried.

"You thought things could change, even if you went about it wrong."

"I thought things couldn't change, which was why I did what I did, Sora. There is a difference."

"Xehanort, please—"

"Anything else would be worse." More softly, he added, "I preferred this. I preferred this. This life, this threshold world. But do the strong care for their own preference when it contradicts their goals, their destiny?" He shook his head. "Besides, we should view this experience as being to our mutual advantage, in that—"

There was a glow about him as he spoke. Sora could have—should have—stopped him. He had his Keyblade. He had his magic. Xehanort had given it back to him.

He did not stop him. He watched as a portal of shadows and cyan energy opened before Xehanort, obscuring, so very briefly, the world beyond. The sounds of clocks, of cogs, of hands ticking, water dripping, beeping, the swirl of sand in an hourglass. Rain rises into the air. The buildings bend in a narrowing spiral, their windows burning, edges in deepest shadow. The calling. The prediction.

There are rules to time travel, he thought. He can't step through. But he knew he wouldn't.

And he did not. He looked, instead, at a Sora from an hour ago, perhaps two, when the world was evening instead of night. He was caught up on a sidewalk, surrounded by an ocean of bodies, threatened by no more than rain and a familiar face just a little way up and across the street.

Xehanort looked to the Sora of the now, looked to him.

"—we know each other a little better now, and isn't that knowing such a dangerous thing?"

And through time, it echoed; a voice where it needed to be, or where it wanted, and where it was wanted. Feelings tangled in Sora's chest, his own and Xehanort's. It was dangerous. But it was danger that had pushed him forward, that he had wanted, that he had believed he could touch and shape and change, that he hadn't been able to resist. It was a danger that could have filled him, could have, could have, could have...

Maybe it had. Maybe the empty was full.

Maybe it hadn't. Maybe it still could.

Idiot. I'm an idiot. A reckless, stupid idiot. But he had seen Xehanort, and he had known him. He had seen what he could be, and Sora was just another seeker in this world. Maybe that was all he ever was in any of them.

"It is..." He said. "It is a dangerous thing." For Sora, and for Xehanort. They were together in that, at least.

Xehanort said nothing. Sora kneeled, and then he stood, head bowed, struggling to his weary feet. Xehanort's shadow loomed even from the other end of the alley, that far away place. Sora thought, though, that his own might be greater if only his light still shone behind him.

Click.

Sora's head startled upright, legs staggering. "Wait!" He cried.

But Xehanort hadn't left, hadn't summoned a portal. He'd been crouched in the alley's opening, rose rapidly at Sora's shout. It was not obvious what he had done, but Sora could see that though he was still here, his eyes, his face, his posture said something else. Time to go. 

Time to let go.

"Please, don't..." He couldn't say it. Sora couldn't ask him to stay. Xehanort watched him, head tilted, but never fully turned.

"Those feelings in your heart right now...are you sure they're yours?" He said, paused, let the words sink in; the horror of being a ghost. "They could have been sent through time, just like those words of mine."

"No."

"You don't know, Sora."

"No, stop, stop doing this, just—"

"—you know what I'm capable of—"

"No!" Sora roared, trembled with the word. "You said..." He took a breath, felt it shake out of him. His voice broke, faded, dragged itself on in cracked, soft determination. "You said I stepped forward first. If you didn't plan this, then that means I stepped forward first. So even if those feelings, these feelings, come from here, from now, from...this...something made me step forward. We know something made me step forward. And if we ended up like this, I don't think it could have only been the feelings we had as enemies. So everything, all these feelings, they're"—his throat tensed in agony—"mine. They're mine." The ones that are good and the ones that are not. All that is light and all that is darkness.

Wasn't that all they were? Just light and darkness as their most ridiculous caricatures, in their most horrific forms.

Or was that a fiction they were telling themselves?

Xehanort stared at him for one long moment, and then, there, carving a hole in his eyes was a gleam of something other than curiosity. The killing; the agony, shared. That itself was the resurrection. The satisfied stayed asleep.

"I did say that. I did...and that's what you'll believe."

Then he turned, unsmiling, another expression caught and extinguished before Sora even knew what it was, and stepped beyond the haze and into the storm. Sora's heart clapped against his ribs like thunder. He ran, slipped, ran, hand outstretched—offering, please take it, begging, please take it!—but by the time he reached that place where Xehanort had stood, he was gone.

Time. Sora was out of time.

The rain fell. Sora's heart was on the ground by the alley's entrance, at the edge of the world. It was accompanied by a folded black coat, waiting, and a broken umbrella, dirtied by the water, reflecting lavender light.