Work Text:
He’s not naive.
Not going so far as to say wisened, but given time he is wont to add two and two where occasion calls for it. He just didn’t think this was something he’d ever have to figure out.
Riku is looking at something intensely on the little screen of the Gummiphone. Sora invokes his naturally given right to nosiness—in the name of best friend duty, of course—and peers over. Riku moves the screen to the menu and angles the phone out of his line of sight by way of his pocket.
“What’s that? Are you making new friends without me?” Sora asks. He’s delighted, actually, and he’s aiming to rib, but it comes out accusatory.
Riku shakes his head.
“Something like that.”
He picks up his jacket where it’s draped across the armchair and swings it on, doing up the zipper and straightening the collar as he turns to walk out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Sora calls out after him, but he doesn’t respond.
There is nothing in the best friend guidebook that says anything about asking. When you’re bonded through a forge of fire and tragedy and heartbreak and joy and pre-adolescent slapstick jokes there isn’t need for such contrivances. Riku would tell him, or he would already know. That’s just the way things are.
It’s just… he’s starting to wonder if that’s not the way things will be.
He doesn’t mean to look.
He doesn’t mean to look anywhere, most of the time, but it happens. In a rare careless moment Riku turns away for a second and leaves the screen of the Gummiphone lit up, and Sora’s eyes fall to it instantly by virtue of it being the brightest thing in the room at the time, distracted, and is there really so much blame in that?
On the screen is a picture. He looks away in a split second, because he’s not that keen to betray trust, but he’s been trained to keep a sharp eye—it’s a boy, smiling while doing something, though he can’t tell what, and he sees a little symbol written underneath that could be a smiley face or even a heart, and he wants to ask about it so bad it hurts.
But Riku reaches out to sweep the Gummiphone into his hand, covering the face of it just subtly enough that he can deny he’s trying to hide something, and the screen goes dark just as Riku turns back to face him. Sora makes no indication he’s seen anything and grins, wide.
“What are you smiling about?” Riku grumbles, but he can’t hide the crack of fondness that hitchhikes onto the phrase with a smile.
“What are you?” Sora counters, watching the brief note of distraction cross his face as he checks the screen again, a crinkle at his eyes. It catches Riku off his footing, and he hesitates before looking up again.
“Your stupid face.”
“Hey. Admit it. You like my stupid face.”
He shrugs, grandly, and stands to leave.
“That’s not a ‘no!’”
He shrugs again and strides away without sparing him another glance. Sora hunches his shoulders, face contorted a little as he tries to puzzle everything together.
Riku is getting ready to leave, to go out somewhere and do something with someone. There may be greater miracles, but not many. Sora takes it upon himself to keep him company for the time being. He reclines casually on Riku’s bed with his hands propping up his head to monitor where Riku is in the process.
He stands in front of the mirror. Sora watches him hesitate for a moment before reaching up to run hands through his hair, cocking his head to peer at his reflection now that he’s made this essential change. Sora smiles without thinking at this little touch of vanity, and looks him over for the complete picture. Riku drops his hands, satisfied with his hair, but then stills.
Sora realizes that Riku’s caught him staring through the reflection. They lock eyes via the mirror. Sora musters the grace not to be mortified as he sees his own dazed expression fall away. He looks on, watching Riku blink deliberately once, twice, then turn to meet his eye for real.
He hovers there for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say something, and blinks one more time.
He finally lands on a bland, “I’m headed out.”
“Have a good time!” Sora says cheerfully, but Riku only stands with an expectant air. Still reclining, Sora looks right back at him, a little bit of a challenge sneaking into his system. He could be ornery. But Riku doesn’t budge, and he decides it’s not worth the fight after all. With the most put upon sigh, he hauls himself up in one fluid motion and hops to stand next to him, cheekily awaiting further instruction on principle. Riku gestures outward, inviting him to leave. The only indicator of his growing vexation is the other hand curling at his side.
Sheesh.
He’ll let him have this round. He grins, not at all genuine, and lopes out of the room with a hand on his hip. He gifts Riku with an encouraging set of slaps to the back when he matches his pace.
“What makes you say I’m doing anything fun?” he says.
Sora shrugs.
“Wishful thinking, maybe.”
He shakes his head, the slightest smile crossing his face.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and they part ways, a clean break.
He’ll tell him when he’s ready. If there’s something to tell. Whatever it is, he’ll let him know eventually.
Right?
They are invited to some pompous circumstance, a celebration for Ansem the Wise where they are obliged to attend his speech commemorating a milestone in the long restored peace of his reign. They’ve even been given their own little balcony box, so if Sora talks the whole way through it he won’t bother anyone nearby. But Riku is late, and it is boring, and now he’s sitting here alone for no good reason. He stands with his arms crossed, too miffed and restless to sit.
Ansem has just taken the stage when the door to the box slides open.
“Where have you been?” Sora asks, watching Riku turn the corner, materialized from thin air. He must not hear him, because he doesn’t seem to notice. “Hey!” he hisses again, feeling another sudden spike of frustration—Riku’s the one that said that they should come in the first place.
After a beat he turns, and very subtly startles as if he hadn’t been aware of anyone there at all. He cocks a grin, easy and wide, and there’s something so off about it that Sora shakes his head to clear it.
“Will you just hurry up?” Sora fusses, irony of this role reversal not lost on him, and with authority he intersects—one step, two—to pull him by the arm so they can watch the beginning of the speech from over the railing. Riku is pushed off balance and sways in place for just a moment. Sora squints up at him to peer closer at his glassy expression.
“Seriously. Where were you?” he whispers again, holding up an arm to steady him before giving him a couple of good old fashioned fraternal pats.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he mutters—sourpuss, ugh—but he relaxes and falls easily into his arm with a gentle shove in return. They brush together, and it’s normal, and comfortable, and he’s pleased.
“I can’t really hear.”
Sora cranes forward to make the point, peering out into the crowd. Riku shifts behind him to accommodate, and they bump together once more when he comes back up for air. He makes a belated noise in the affirmative, following suit to look out as well. He steps back again, and he’s aware of just how much they’ve slid together.
“Maybe I’ll skip the next one,” Riku says airily. There’s another twinge. Sora looks up at him, and when he realizes he’s being stared into submission he turns, and hits him with another dopey smile before throwing an arm around his shoulder. They rock together, and he turns for a better angle, pressing close.
“Are you okay?” Sora asks, settling his shoulders under the weight of his arm; he’s looking at him like something’s caught his eye, like he needs to puzzle something out. “You’re being kind of weird, man. Are you…. Have you been—“
Riku moves his head down, he thinks to hear better. That’s fine. But there’s still something divinely strange in his expression, something he’s never quite seen before with that level of intensity. His heart rate increases for a moment, a panic response to the unknown as he dips yet farther down to meet his height.
In shock he thinks bizarrely that Riku might be reaching down to kiss him.
It has to be something else; it’s impossible, because if he really is then he’s truly got no idea whatsoever what to do about it.
It’s entirely too ludicrous to think about—there’s a ringing in his ears as he blinks to recenter, and there, see?—Riku stands up tall once more and steps away. Sora laughs nervously in automatic response, a sort of relief and disappointment roiling around inside him all at once as he realizes that he’s not even remotely privy to what Riku’s been up to after all.
“Hey,” he prods softly, “I’m serious, maybe you shouldn’t be out right now. I think you should…”
“I think I should go home,” Riku says at the same time, face turned up in some strange moeu for just a beat until it returns to steel.
Without so much as a nod goodbye he exits. In response Sora huffs once more, not so much a nervous laugh this time as it is just nervous. What was all that about. He shakes his head in fond disapproval and peers down into the festivities one more time before stealing away himself.
So clearly Riku’s got something (with someone) going on—more power to you. He guesses everyone was right when they told him people do crazy things when they’re in love, and maybe that explains some of these strange new growing pains.
He’ll get it out of him one way or another. He always does.
Come to think: what would it even look like, his lovesick best friend? Just how would a Riku in love operate, untethered from duty and mingling amongst the clouds; how would he finally show signs of settling into a new role, defenses unshackled as he shifts to mold into someone’s perfect loverboy, unwavering and sincere as he is in all things?
He’s never really seen him interested in somebody before. Perhaps he just assumed—
Well. Whatever he assumed, it seems he hasn’t swung in the right direction. In failing to give it more than a cursory thought, he’s been negligent in getting a full picture, of seeing what what probably should have been obvious all along. He probably should have asked.
But… he’ll tell him. Right?
Sora is terribly bored and hasn’t seen Riku for the better part of the last two days, and so infrequently before then. He’s restless with it, antsy with the need to restore order to the balance of the universe. He wants to talk to him—about what, he doesn’t know, but he’s never quite content if he can’t bother him every once in a while.
He stomps toward Riku’s room and tries to think of an excuse to get him to come out and do something interesting, maybe a demand, or an offer he won’t refuse. He’ll work around whatever token resistance he puts up and drag him out into the fresh air while he tries to dig at the corners of him and get him to let slip the solution to solving all his problems.
He slams on his door, then waits a moment. It’s entirely possible he’s not there, but not likely. A little bit of rustling from behind the door, and he smirks before slamming again, a long and loud peal of appeal; he gets a mumbled “coming, yeesh, just a second” and in a moment the door opens, and Riku pops out, tentatively holding the door half shut.
“Were you sleeping?” he blurts out, taking in his dishevelment, his rushed and impatient air, his bare torso. For whatever reason it’s the last of those that surprises him most; not that it’s unfamiliar, but it catches him off guard, and he works to pull his gaze up to meet his, not wanting to get distracted by that uneasy feeling he gets in his chest whenever the obvious disparity in their strength is on display. Now’s not the time to whine to him about feeling inferior.
“Hey,” Riku sighs, picking right up in a soft voice. “What’s wrong, Sora?”
Sora shakes his head to get his bearings, mission failed—his eyes flit around anyway, taking in the grip Riku has on the door, making it clear that his permanent invitation inside is rescinded, shutting him out and covering up what’s inside, a barrier that starts with the bare line of him all but for the waistband of his—
“Make it quick, would you, darling?” he hears a voice call from inside, poisoned with alto amusement. “Or at least let me know if you’ll be long.”
Riku tenses, horror forming a special miasma of chagrin on him, eyes wide and face red.
They look at one another for another second, gaping.
“I… forgot,” Sora says, voice so low and tight with shock it’s a wonder he can even hear himself over the hoarseness. Mortified, he turns and flees the scene. He doesn’t hear the door shut with finality until well after he’s made it halfway down the hallway.
The panic response he feels won’t dissipate, even well after he’s left the situation, and bizarrely the first thing he thinks to compare the intensity of it to is the way he felt the night the islands fell. He kicks open the door to his room as he arrives and it bounces right back to smack him dead on the nose. He shouts in anger before grabbing the handle this time and pushing through to collapse into a seat on the nearest horizontal surface.
His heart rate stays high. Something’s tugging at him beyond that profound embarrassment, and despite what remained of his common sense he keeps tumbling back into it. Someone there… with Riku; a man’s voice he doesn’t know calling for him to come back to—
He can’t keep his breathing calm, pulls in sharp, short gasps, and feels ridiculous for it, this overreaction of the century—and suddenly he’s crying, overcome with staccato sobs, still clawing for air. Because he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop thinking about him in there with some dumb nobody, someone who doesn’t know him at all. Someone taking up his time, and telling him what to do, and touching him, putting hands all over him like they have any clue who they’ve got in front of them and just what he’s worth. As if they could fathom for an instant how little they deserve him.
Because Riku is worthy of the worlds, deserves someone who understands, who knows what he’s been through and treads gently for it. Deserves someone who in spite of it still isn’t afraid to call him out when he’s being an idiot. Deserves someone who stands on equal footing, a challenge and a balm; someone who can make him laugh, someone he cares about, someone who will never let him feel alone again—and then Sora realizes that he wouldn’t even have to try to search the worlds for this match to know that he’d still find it wanting. Sora knows he’ll never find someone good enough for as long as he looks, because Riku is stupid and perfect and full of the brightest light anyone could ask for and the only someone who knows that is himself. And now there’s someone else who can’t give even a fraction of that back in return, touching him, and he feels a wet and senseless rage take hold in his gut, ready to take this stranger down the same way he mowed through every Organization enemy who so much as breathed a word out of turn. It should be him. And worst of all, Sora’s figured it out too late. That not only did someone slide in to take his place before he was even aware he wanted it, but that should he ever get to claim it back it still wouldn’t change that someone else had for even a second gotten a chance to see this side of him and touch him.
He throws himself down and curls up, clutching at the surface before his face to try and find any semblance of grounding, still hitching out hot tears. Someone other than himself had dared to entreat Riku’s company, and it was the most unforgivable crime of all. There’s a deep hole gouged out of his center, heartless, open in a way he’s never known and never had to, not since he was four years old. And now that it needs patching he’s helpless; he has no idea left what to do.
Swimming in an anger quickly submerged in despair, he cries, exhausted with it, until he falls asleep.
He thinks he understands, now, the whole not telling thing. If it’s this much grief to stumble upon the need to fold someone into your heart, then it’s obvious how raw a thing it is for even your heart to know.
Sora wants nothing more than to say his piece about it, and that’s why he goes home to hide.
If he leaves a trail, it’ll be too obvious he wants to be found, and he’s already too mortified to have the conversation, clueless about what he’ll even say. Perhaps he’ll scream and rage some, perhaps he’ll give the active cold shoulder, perhaps, in the worst case scenario, he’ll just cry. He wants to talk to Riku more than anything in the universe right now. He never wants to see Riku again. It’s a little complicated, he’ll admit.
He spends a stretch in a miserable little cocoon at his mom’s house, playing homesick for want of coddling, then spends a day or two meandering the mainland, whittling away the hours aimlessly walking through the town and taking in all the things that changed: the repainted storefronts, the remodeled houses, the repurposed shanties now holding kiosks of wares and services for sale. He thinks maybe he’d regret not seeing it grow if it hadn’t already been so divorced from memory—so many of the most precious things withstood context. The myriad places he’d gone searching for the universal constant didn’t change what it was, well before he knew… it had been here, or he had chased it around any number of worlds, or it had followed him around them instead: the place where his heart belonged—now remaining where he last abandoned it.
Now he steps into the next stage of licking wounds self-imposed and makes the journey to the play island the old-fashioned way to explore. He takes special care to kick up all the sand in his path wherever he trudges. He pokes around the crevices. He dangles from the precipices. He drapes himself across all the usual spots to stare pensively out to sea. Finally, he can avoid it no more, and slips into the one place on the whole of the islands he’s meant to go the whole time.
The secret place feels so much smaller now than it did, and so much less intimidating. He pulls his knees to his chest and looks at the drawings, faded over the years with no maintenance. He looks at the scribbled portraits with two paopus between and tries to puzzle out just how he intends to feel about it. The only thing he lands on is wonder that he ever thought he’d need a gesture.
He imagines wiping it away with his hand, then thinks better of it. The drawing’s not the offender. The principal artist, on the other hand… He scooches around to put his back against it instead, and when he slides his legs back into place and hugs them close, he puts his face between his knees to drive home some of the self-pity.
He sits like that for a long while, just breathing around them—all the things he wants to think and can’t.
He pretends he doesn’t hear when the barrier spell he put on the entryway is dismantled, and ignores the quiet footfalls of the only person he knows can do it who would want to find him and know where to look.
The footfalls stop but the hovering doesn’t, and Sora feigns oblivious all the same. Realizing he won’t be acknowledged, Riku closes the gap and sits down beside him, bumping their legs together as he presses his back to the stone.
Sora turns his head the opposite direction and breathes a stuttering sigh, emphasizing the exhale as he hugs himself closer. Riku lets a few beats elapse for his benefit before he begins.
“When I figured out you’d disappeared after a couple of days, I was really angry with you. First of all, it’s really not your style.” He sighs, shifting to a more comfortable position against the stone. “I’m flattered, I guess; you had to pick it up from somewhere.
“More than that, I wondered why you were throwing a tantrum about my business. It felt like you thought you got to judge. Though I think I was being defensive.
“I didn’t understand. I still don’t. But I probably still should have told you.
“It doesn’t matter in the long run; it’s over. Not a lot to it. It was never really meant to work out. It’s just…” Riku sighs, and drops into a low register, soft like a secret he doesn’t want to tell. “I think it’s time I started to move on.”
He shifts again, pulling his knees up to mirror his pose and drape his arms in a loose circle around his knees.
“I’m sorry I kept it from you. It probably wasn’t fair. I was worried about how you would react.”
“I don’t care that you’re—” Sora starts with a gasp. Ah, oh no—this is the worst case scenario; he struggles around a sob. “I just… I wanna say I don’t care if you start seeing someone. But I’m just as selfish as you think. Because every time I think about you with someone else I feel sick. It should be me.”
It’s silent for a long moment before he responds.
“I know,” he says. “It should.”
“But I’m too late.”
“I wonder if maybe we’re both too early.”
Sora finally peeks out over at him. Riku looks down on him with a melancholy smile, resigned, and holds out his hand, palm facing up. When he proffers his hand once more, Sora hesitates, unsure, and Riku reaches around with his other hand to wedge Sora’s fingers from a white knuckled grip and places their palms together. Sora loosely tangles their fingers together and huffs like he’s going to continue to cry.
With a possessive urge he grips tighter, wanting it to be more. He wants to crowd him, to enter his space and overwrite every single molecule of someone else’s presence on him, to mask every whisper an outsider left by pressing closer together in every way it makes him feel dizzy to think about, to insinuate himself solidly in the circle of his arms and prove that no one else could ever hold a candle to the way they slot together heart to heart.
“Move on… from me,” he asks without asking, voice hoarse. “Is that what you want? To move on?”
Riku sighs, looking ahead, and squeezes his hand tighter.
“What if I told you I wished I did?”
Sora deflates, cut loose, exhausted with it.
“I think I’d ask you to wait for me just a little bit longer.”
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “I can be pretty patient. But only if you’re sure. Because I’ve already waited a long time.”
Riku pulls at their entwined hands leans down to leave a kiss on the back of Sora’s before opening his palm to let them fall loosely apart, gently untangling their fingers as he stands.
“My door’s open,” he says, and walks away, and Sora knows that when he finally runs through it it’ll be for the last time.