Isa wonders if Lea sleeps at all. He knows Lea thinks he doesn't notice, but Isa knows Lea. He's used to a sharp-elbowed, loud snorer who smothers you in fire engine red hair, but this Lea stays separate from Isa, deliberately timed sighs echoing in the corners of the bedroom.

When Lea does sleep, he whimpers. For Roxas, for Xion, for his parents sometimes, when he's truly lost. Sometimes Lea whispers random names of worlds, of cities, of people he's killed. Isa knows every case. But he is not Lea. He does not carry the guilt of those deeds, at least.

No, what he's done is much worse.

Some nights Lea doesn't even pretend. Some nights he throws back the sheets with a growl, flicking through channels full of "have you seen this person?" ads and that old interview they did with Sora when the Second War ended. Lea does not like those channels. He always ends up at the same program, one about animals.

Lea liked dogs the most. Once, he and Isa found a box of puppies, abadoned at the back of a restaurant. Isa thought whoever abandoned those dogs by a garbage container had to be a special kind of garbage themselves.

But on a few extraordinarily rare nights, Lea cries. Isa feels the bed shake before he hears the sobs. Isa doesn't know what he cries about. Roxas, Xion, maybe the guilt. Maybe Isa.

Sometimes Isa ignores Lea, sometimes he tries to touch him. He never does. Some invisible force, a force that feels like Xemnas and his puppet strings, pulls him back and keeps his fingers fisted in the pillow. Instead he listens to Lea cry.

He wonders if this makes him a sadist. If he already isn't one.