A/N: This may or may not actually become a Sokai collection, though I really want it to be. It was originally meant to be a gift for my friend Remi, but I'd already given her some Sokai and so she was just fine with me writing her something else. The timelines for BTM could be all over the place, just a little warning. I've also stuck in a bunch of stuff that may be a little inconsistent with the KH universe, like the panadería (Spanish for a little shop that makes sweet breads and pastries like the ones my grandmother buys). Those will probably be all over the place.
Also, these little one-shots will feature background music, which explains where the titles came from. This first was inspired by "A Dream Upon Waking," from the Amélie soundtrack and an old-school KH cutscene, 'cause that's how I roll.
So feel free to read and review and rant at me for how badly I screwed up little!Riku. On with the show!
Beyond This Morning
A Dream Upon Waking
"There's a new girl at the mayor's house," the older boy says to the younger, one day where nothing in particular is bound to happen. They're both praying for competition, something exciting and new. They're both in terrible need of a real mystery, a real adventure.
The girl becomes the first goal they've raced each other for in a long, long time.
And they count down, eagerly, with adrenaline making their hearts pump so fast, so fast they feel they might burst.
"Three, two, one," Sora shouts to the sky that's ripe, expectant, anticipating.
"Go," Riku finishes, inhaling the moment and forgetting everything else but the goal as he and Sora fly.
They go off like rockets, scissoring elbows together, shoving shoulders, tripping each other up. Twigs bite the skin near their eyes, leaves land in their pockets and under their feet. They both have dirty messy hair and dirty ripped knees and dirty little mouths caked with dust when they arrive at the mayor's house. They spit out the dust and hide the piles, leaving little mud mockeries of the breads in the panadería their mothers meet at every once in a while.
They shove and push through the gate, and come charging—fifteen steps left, now ten, now five—up to the grand white double doors. There's glass in the doors and that slows them down, makes them breathe, staring up at the stained windows like the glass is worth more than them. It's all changed now, and they stand there, dwarfed by the clear sky, hoping their hearts will stop hammering soon.
Later they argue over who pushes the doorbell, wanting and not wanting to be first all at once. Finally, after "roe sham bo" and "my mother told me to pick the best one" both come up empty, Riku steps forward with a justified, overused excuse: "I'm older."
Riku reaches out a hand that he thinks is too small. He's a little hesitant, then, because Sora's watching, completely unafraid.
A long line of bells erupts, loudly, to the entire world. It's the end of the world in a song, every cathedral contributing a lyric.
"It sounds like a lot of churches," Sora says, smiling a little. He likes church when the priest tells him he got the right answer during children's homily, especially when his mom's there. Then there's the rest of Mass, where he and Riku hide underneath a pew, making up secret languages. They talk about the altar in ways nobody understands because they're still too young to understand why the adults process in a line, go forth, take little cross-stamped circles and eat them, reverent.
"If there's a nun, I'm leaving," says Riku, who likes church with Sora but not without a grown-up nearby. He's very afraid that one cold dark day will come where everyone's back will be turned, and a nun's habit will swallow him whole. He's had nightmares about it, but he won't tell anyone. He'd rather diethan say he's scared of anything.
A thin servant opens the door, but the mayor pushes him aside, throwing a large shadow on the two boys. He's a jovial sort of man, like a Santa Claus reject. He's certainly got the belly, which his belt strains to keep confined. His hands are like large holiday birds, flapping around without any wings. He wears a suit despite the weather, and because of that his face is always very, very red.
"Harada Sora! Kyoya Riku!" he says formally, addressing them like they're colleagues who work with him. This makes the boys smile a little wider, stand up a little straighter: we're grown-up. "How are you today?"
"Good, sir," they say in practiced unison, bowing like their moms tell them to. Riku bows respectfully but quickly, a ceremonial gesture, ready to ask where the new girl is. Sora bows very slowly, politely, as if he's waiting for permission to come back up. He rises slow, too.
That's why he sees her first.
There's the girl clinging to the material of the mayor's pants, the pinstripes bunching in her small fists. She has red hair that's brighter than anything Sora remembers, even more than new fire, and her eyes are like a very deep sea. She's pale, like she's spent her life in the inner shelves of a locked-away library. But her cheeks have a healthy blush, and her spotless white sundress is really nice on her.
Sora's stomach lurches a little and suddenly he can't think of anything to say. He feels like he's stepped into a dream because he's never seen any girl this pretty, and she's a dream upon waking. When he falls asleep, or wakes up again, or something—she'll be gone. She's just too good for him, for here, for anywhere. She's like a princess—why is she here?
He elbows Riku, which means, in secret language, "pinch me." There's a moment of delay before Riku pinches him, behind their backs, so the mayor won't see.
Ouch! Sora winces at the pain on his arm's, biting his lip, and the girl leans her face forward, questioning, wondering if the boys are okay.
Riku and the mayor are talking, like adults. Neither Sora nor the girl pay much attention and instead absorb the other.
"When'd she come here?" Riku asks.
She fingers the bottom of her skirt, breathing like some high giggle may come out of her.
"I found her on the beach, my boy. It was the strangest thing. She came in at high noon—though none of the fishermen saw her floating in," says the mayor.
He asks her, silently, through lips, how old she is.
"What about her mom and dad?" Riku says.
She answers, I'm five. Happily, Sora responds: Me, too.
"Not a sign of them," the mayor is saying regretfully. "It's a tragedy, and of course, I couldn't leave her all alone. Have you come to take her to your games on the beach? She really should see the sun," the mayor ends, his plump face falling a little.
The girl mute-whispers, I'm Kairi.
Sora thinks it's the best name he's ever heard. When he lip-says his name he knows it's not as good as hers, but she just smiles and says It's nice to meet you.
"Wanna play? Wanna be friends?" Sora asks eagerly, forgetting his lip-silence. She looks a little startled by the noise, and she looks up at the mayor, her mouth an unreadable line. The mayor nods, and so she does too.
"Mmhmm," she says, and the three of them run into the sunny day. Riku's the earth and Sora's the sky, and they've found a place where they both meet—in Kairi, the princess from a dream upon waking.
---