"Idiot," He says it like breathing. Knocking others down like this, putting himself over them, he was created with that kind of arrogance just as much as he was taught to cultivate it and use it as a weapon to put other people beneath him. Xenahort had been a master of that kind of thing, and Vanitas was the only one underneath him left— at least, before Ventus shattered his heart, and sent them both careening into slumber for a decade.

Riku puts his knuckles against the glass and Vanitas feels it at a distance, like the water buoying up the edge of a boat, keeping it from sinking. He doesn't try to right his grip, or pull the glass back in toward himself. He sighs, long and slow, and the barrel of his chest sinks with it. Tension bleeds out of his muscles as sleep works it's way in, pushing up against his consciousness like a needy cat.

"Where else would I go?" He murmurs this without opening his eyes, and there's a melancholy to it that he'd never let slip in front of a person that was once his enemy.