He blinks, halfway to another uncomprehending shake of his head. He doesn't understand. How could he have been close but not say where? But the truth starts to sink in with that exhale--the patient exhale of someone waiting for a slow child to grasp at the straws in front of him.
The facts are there, waiting to be assembled in drips and drabs: Riku hadn't been in extended danger this whole time. He hadn't been prevented from reaching out and telling anyone where he was. He'd chosen not to. Is choosing. And therein lies the missing link, the root of the discrepancy that's kept M.K. from connecting all the dots, because through all the sweat and searching, it hadn't once occurred to him Riku would purposely leave him in the dark. The rest of the town, maybe--but not him. Riku would've asked for help if he'd needed it or outlined his plan if he hadn't.
Confusion begins to fade under the gradual, leaden revelation.
I hoped I'd run into you, he'd said. But only after. After he'd returned. After M.K. had... freaked out.
Oh, now the pieces are coming together. He'd run straight up to that line that can't be crossed assuming he would be invited across it, not seeing the invisible wall that was actually there. The collision is jarring, stealing his questions from his mouth. He'd thought, after the discovery they were more alike than dissimilar the time they'd found the armory... Maybe they hadn't bridged a gap to trust, exactly, maybe not even a friendship Riku felt was worth building onto, but a seeding camaraderie. Enough to be trusted to know Riku hadn't simply vanished.
The silence stretches, awkward and stilted, broken up only by the soft pop and flicker of the torch flame.
Somehow, despite his best intentions not to repeat his mistakes, he's done it again. Misjudged. Overstepped. Let wishful thinking spin a web of unfair expectations, as he's done with so many people before. Pilgrim had said those with darkness are family. That they owe one another more loyalty than others. How desperately he's clung to that false notion, wanting to believe it for his own sake, as if wanting made it true. As if finding common ground is currency with which to buy intimacy in a new world between strange people.
He hadn't felt foolish until this moment, and he has only himself to blame. Vanitas' mockery makes more sense now. He'd made a mistake in making it personal.
"I see." No, not really, but what else is there to say? He licks his lips. "Well, I guess you didn't need my help."
no subject
The facts are there, waiting to be assembled in drips and drabs: Riku hadn't been in extended danger this whole time. He hadn't been prevented from reaching out and telling anyone where he was. He'd chosen not to. Is choosing. And therein lies the missing link, the root of the discrepancy that's kept M.K. from connecting all the dots, because through all the sweat and searching, it hadn't once occurred to him Riku would purposely leave him in the dark. The rest of the town, maybe--but not him. Riku would've asked for help if he'd needed it or outlined his plan if he hadn't.
Confusion begins to fade under the gradual, leaden revelation.
I hoped I'd run into you, he'd said. But only after. After he'd returned. After M.K. had... freaked out.
Oh, now the pieces are coming together. He'd run straight up to that line that can't be crossed assuming he would be invited across it, not seeing the invisible wall that was actually there. The collision is jarring, stealing his questions from his mouth. He'd thought, after the discovery they were more alike than dissimilar the time they'd found the armory... Maybe they hadn't bridged a gap to trust, exactly, maybe not even a friendship Riku felt was worth building onto, but a seeding camaraderie. Enough to be trusted to know Riku hadn't simply vanished.
The silence stretches, awkward and stilted, broken up only by the soft pop and flicker of the torch flame.
Somehow, despite his best intentions not to repeat his mistakes, he's done it again. Misjudged. Overstepped. Let wishful thinking spin a web of unfair expectations, as he's done with so many people before. Pilgrim had said those with darkness are family. That they owe one another more loyalty than others. How desperately he's clung to that false notion, wanting to believe it for his own sake, as if wanting made it true. As if finding common ground is currency with which to buy intimacy in a new world between strange people.
He hadn't felt foolish until this moment, and he has only himself to blame. Vanitas' mockery makes more sense now. He'd made a mistake in making it personal.
"I see." No, not really, but what else is there to say? He licks his lips. "Well, I guess you didn't need my help."