Sora sleeps in a sling made of vines, up in the trees where the gorillas took them after Clayton was released and the keyhole locked. The noises here are different than their little island. You can't hear the water, just the trees, the birds. Jane says it's been a while since the jungle sounded so alive. The heartless have a way with silence.
The trees creak above and below him, and in his sleep, it becomes the sea, the gentle waves that lap up on the beach, good for running through, for chasing, for tackling Riku into the surf and watching him fall, his silver hair losing its spikes, going flat and dark even as his eyes turn hot and predatory.
Kairi, too easy to catch and no fun to chase, had left them alone, tipping her nose into the air and striding off, brushing the sand from her skirt, calling them boys in a way that was meant to be insulting.
Riku flips them over and pins Sora down, and Sora laughs, the sea licking at his ears, its salty fingers sliding along the back of his neck, Riku regal and imposing above him, that familiar glint in his eyes.
Overhead, the leaves of the paopu tree rustle, and Riku lowers his head and says Sora's name. Then the crash of the sea turns into the noise of the jungle, and Sora jerks awake, a million miles from home, clutching the keyblade and listening to his name on the wind.