What a curious role reversal they find themselves in. Riku, often presenting himself the more level-headed, the more unflappable of them, explodes like a cat with its tail pinched in a trap. And M.K., not usually half so caring of what he wears out in the open, takes it in with an unreadable, silent scrutiny. There are times he does care what others see, and he makes a point to tuck the feelings ill-timed discoveries stir out of view.

"I'm not," he agrees gently. "You don't have to tell me anything."

He has two choices, each unfurling ahead of him in diverging paths. He could take the clear rebuff personally, let himself feel the sting of it. Hadn't he said as much, that people are inevitably disappointing? How is this different from any other time he's held someone in higher esteem than they do him? It's a sadly familiar pattern by now. Getting his memories back had come at a cost--it had seemed to flay off a layer of skin from him, leaving him raw, hurting, everything since colored with that hurt. It would be so easy to let it drown out everything else.

But he'd done that once. And it had led him here.

Maybe it's time he be the one to break out of the pattern and take the other, less trodden path. The one where he takes a step back and doesn't let his wants overshadow the good news: that Riku is here, and if not well, then on the mend. It can be enough for him, if he makes it enough.

But enough for anyone else?

"If you needed to figure things out, then that's all you had to say from the beginning. I would've understood. I don't need all the details. But when you talk to the others," a nod in the direction of the Invincible, "do them a favor and come up with a better reason for why you didn't tell them you were all right. You're the one who's always saying we need to rely on each other, and they went out on a limb for you. A kid like Mary's not going to understand."