Dreams

Sometimes, she dreamt.

She dreamt of laughing, of talking, of smiling and crying. She dreamt of touches, glances, kisses. She dreamt of promises never broken, but never quite kept. She dreamt of goodbyes.

She dreamt of places where dreams were real.

She'd wake in the humid Besaid heat, with his legs tangled with hers and his head against the back of her neck, breath hot against the skin between her shoulder blades. He'd know she was awake, even with her eyes closed, and his hand would trace up and down her side and belly. His hair would brush against her shoulders and she'd feel his lips against her neck, trailing kisses up until he murmured calming nonsense to the space behind her ear.

And she'd open her eyes.

Sometimes, she woke, terrified, not able to remember his face. His arm would tighten around her waist, and she'd bury her face against his chest. She'd close her eyes tight shut until they hurt, covering them with curled hands and pressing until bright blue and white lights sparked against her eyelids.

She'd always remember his eyes first. The line of his jaw, the curve of his lips and the gold-brown tone of his skin. The angle of his cheekbones, then back to the eyes, sky blue, and the way they closed slightly when she touched his face. His hair, bleached more platinum then gold by the hot Spira sun, slick with water and clinging to his skin.

His arm would loosen from around her waist, and she'd notice that he'd been holding on tight enough to bruise. But she wouldn't bruise. She never would.

She'd sleep again, and dream of forests and the sea, and dancing. Of swimming and fireflies and rose coloured sunrises.

She dreamt of not having to dream anymore.


Nightmares

Sometimes, he had nightmares.

She could feel them in the darkness, in the way he curled into her, the muscles of his back taught. It took her time to understand again – it hurt her to understand again.

Visions of great monsters, dead men walking, Yunalesca's true face, hideous and snake like. The deathly stillness that Sin created – in her sleep it stretched on forever. She had two years to dispel them from her sleep. Late nights holding Rikku and smoothing her hair. Weeks when she refused to sleep.

But Tidus hadn't had those years. She supposed it was like when you slept, and you woke, having lost hours of time. He was still the Tidus that had disappeared, two years past. The Tidus that had destroyed his own father, and faced his own existence, long before he ever should have done.

That was the Tidus that curled against her in the night, clutching at her hair and burying his face in her shoulders. That was the Tidus that woke when she smoothed his hair, humming gently.

He'd open his eyes, bright with fear, no hint of recognition. It would take long minutes to calm him down. Long minutes for him to remember who she was.

Then his eyes would change, become clearer, darker. He'd kiss her, again and again, the lightest brush of lips over her face, then deep and hot on her mouth, until she was gasping. His movements would be awkward, clumsy, not out of inexperience, but the deep need for comfort – touch - that his nightmares left him with. He would look at her with that same need on his face – his eyes were blue fire – and she would touch – guide him.

Because it was Tidus, and it was all she could do.

And somewhere along the way, he would stroke the same fire into her, thick hot waves rolling through her body. He'd fall asleep wrapped over her like a blanket – and she would stare at where their hands intertwined, pressed into the pillow, until dawn.

She understood then, that he needed her.

She was the only thing he hadn't destroyed.