It would be easy to give him too much or too little from the canteen; the conscientiousness surprises him. The feeling isn't very direct, it sits a little apart from himself, the way he might if he took a particularly shaking blow. He notices. Sets that aside for whenever he's in a position to investigate what it means.

The water he's swallowed has painted a vaguely cool column all the way through his core. Like some of the others in Beacon, once Riku realized how limited their resources would become, he reduced his own intake to a thermos of broth. A little more, to eat something with more substance to make up for poor sleep. It hadn't been enough to spare him the stresses that had waiting for them all when the hallucinations really got going.

Other than a cramp in his empty gut, Riku doesn't feel hungry. Just hollow.

I want to see you recover.

Riku feels something stir in his chest at his answer. Reminded, like stumbling on a nostalgic scent on the air or discovering a photograph at the bottom of a drawer, of a feeling that glows in the dark and hollow space he's in. He felt this the first time they met - that brief encounter on the chaotic lake shore, the ferry sinking and panic a sharp tang on the night breeze.

That kindred desire to protect. Of having something to protect to begin with. What sticks in his thoughts like a burr is all the questions that pop up around the reawakened sentiment. Why he was there that night in the forest?

In his thoughts, he sees Quentin, looking with a dark longing at the dangerous waters below the bridge. He had been so desperate, haunted by phantoms that were all the more real for the cracks they split into his heart. They weren't close. They weren't even friends. Still, Riku couldn't turn away, he needed someone to pull him back from the edge of something irreversible.

Riku's lips part silently. Maybe it's realization, or simply being at a loss for words at Bruce's question.

After a long moment, his head inclines, "...Sora."