Mikoto doesn't jerk awake. Maybe it's because the dream's not a bad one, or at least not in the jarring way his nightmares sometimes are. It's just a matter of closing his eyes in one scene, letting the heavy weight of darkness settle over him, and then when he opens them again it's to a lighter shadow, the greys of night instead of the black of oblivion.
It's weird to take a breath, to have it come easily into uninjured lungs without the chill almost-pain of the wound. For a minute Mikoto doesn't trust his senses, has to lift a hand to touch his chest and reassure himself of reality, reform the line between sleep and waking. And, well, Reisi's never been a deep sleeper.
"Mikoto?" His name is soft, cleared of the drawl of sleep but quiet enough that if he were still asleep it wouldn't wake him.
"Sorry," he says, his voice still clinging to sleep before he rolls over to drape an arm over Reisi's shoulders. "I had a dream."
"A bad one?" The other man hates being woken up, Mikoto knows, but he's awake properly now, or maybe never truly fell asleep in the first place. Fingers come up to drag soothing patterns through Mikoto's hair, and Reisi sighs against his cheek like he's only just starting to relax.
"Kind of," Mikoto offers as a non-answer. Reisi's back is a perfect curve under the idle reassurance of his fingers, the other man's skin flushed with drowsiness like it rarely is unless it's Mikoto who's lit the fire under it. "I died."
"Sounds like a bad dream," Reisi observes. He moves his mouth to Mikoto's forehead, not pressing a kiss against the skin but just breathing over him.
"You stabbed me,"Mikoto goes on, letting his fingers drift down to Reisi's hip.
The other man hums consideringly, rocks in closer so his warm skin presses up against Mikoto. "Did you deserve it?"
"You were saving the world," Mikoto tries to explain. "I was going to die anyway. You were just...being a hero."
"By killing you?" Reisi asks. "I'm not sure I could, with a choice like that."
Mikoto knows he could, knows Reisi better than the other man knows himself. Of course, that goes in the other direction as well; at least he knows it's true, that he'll never understand himself as well as Reisi understands him. So it's no surprise, when he shifts in closer and tucks his head in against the other's shoulder, that Reisi laughs into his hair and says, "Are you feeling sorry for dream-me?"
"I left you all alone," Mikoto offers. "With my blood literally on your hands. It deserves some sympathy."
Reisi sighs. "It was a dream, Mikoto. I am still burdened with you, in fact. Your sense of empathy is going too far, if you're upset over figments of your own imagination." But the hand at Mikoto's hair comes down to curl against the back of the redhead's neck, pulls him in tighter for a moment, and when Reisi next takes a breath it shakes, just slightly, as he lets it out.
Mikoto knows better than to comment on this. Instead he drags Reisi in impossibly closer, presses his lips against the other man's pale shoulder. He imagines it leaves a brand, there, more permanent if less visible than ordinary burns. From the way Reisi shudders, the other man agrees.