Better Than a Lullaby
Crestfallen and weary, with neither the grace of the moon to light his path nor the comfort of a hand to lead him, he ambles blindly through the darkness with little regard for the abandoned objects scattered over the floor. The air around him is thick with chagrin, and when the mattress dips under his weight as he carefully sits down, the silk bedcovers curl against his back empathetically. He's struggling to regain his composure, to piece together the torn and frayed tatters of his poise, but in the wake of a shattered amity and blatantly unrequited affections, all his efforts are in vain. There's a quivering cadence in his intake of breath, broken by the quake of his jaws. Inwardly, he gives thanks to any and all greater forces for the heavy blanket of night that surrounds him; the glittering trail of shame and regret on his cheeks have no moonlight to be caught in.
He doesn't feel their shift in position, doesn't hear the murmured groan of springs beneath them, but at the warmth that embraces him from behind, his only response is to trust it. Their arms snake around his waist like water, tight against his sides but too gentle for him to feel the squeeze. The press of their chest against his back sends shivers up his spine, that bitter chill that had stung his skin disappearing amidst their body heat. He gasps for breath and for the strength to collect himself, willing away the tears for sake of his boyish pride; self-resentment coiling in his chest like heartburn. In a surge of wanton need for support, a coalescence of all his hideously afflicted emotions, he leans against the provided support and allows his head to tilt back. The arms around him shift; a hand slides beneath his shirt unawares, falling lament for the time being whilst its counterpart rises to trace the tendon in his neck.
They close the small distance between his and their lips, establishing a placid rhythm for their movement. His bare skin, wherever they can reach, becomes the cynosure of their hands; they flex their fingers and ghost their short nails across his sensitive abdomen. With intimate knowledge that only he could know, they trail their fingertips over the side of his ribcage and prompt his body to tremble in response, yet he isn't at all surprised to discover that they know how to make him react however they want him to. It's all feather-light touches and slow kisses, nothing definitive and nothing sexually satisfying, but he knows that's the intention. They pull away and they nudge at his lips with their own, not quite a peck but more than a graze, and he can feel their warm breath enter his own mouth. The aftertaste of their tongue is a medley of salt and sugar and fruit, everything familiar and soothing to him; easing his state of mind steadily in a way that no one else is capable of.
And then he's lying on his side beneath the satin sheets, the enigmatic flow of time a trivial matter in his mind – his eyes are dry and heavy with somnolence, and so, in respect, he doesn't question it. His source of consolation is still tight against him, their arm curled around him protectively to remind him that he is not alone. Eyes fluttering close in defeat, he focuses on the measured movement of their chest against his back, and he can feel the brush of their breath against his neck with every even exhale.
A/N: "He" is Sora, and "They" is Roxas. Confusing, I know.