Disclaimer: Um. No. I don't own Sqeenix. No. God forbid. I just. Don't. Own. M'kay? Okay, problem solved.

BC's Notice: So. Um. Yeah. My articulation is lacking because, well, this has been a long vacation for me. And you, as the reader. So. Some new RS story. Yeah. Been awhile. Getting back to shape. About to kill myself with these fragments, and those curly green lines. Stop!

Oh, yeah, I'm back?

Warning: Yaoi. Adult themes and drug references present. Yay.

Thanks: OMG, this first chapter is dedicated to my AWESOMELY, NEW beta-reader, Riku-stalker. Lady, I love you a bunchies and I'm definitely dedicating Riku in a kimono to you. –snickers-

-

Sun in an Empty Room
part i.
Endless, Nameless.

-

"So. You single, boy?"

"…"

"I'd take that as a yes? Right? You are. Saw her the other day actually."

"…"

"She looked pretty down. Like a lost child looking for something quite special she misplaced."

"…Old man, can I just pick up my mail?"

"Sure thing. It's where it's usually located – in your mailbox. Number 15."

"Right."

-

"It goes on like there's no fucking tomorrow."

"Oh, man. That'd, like, totally suck. No sex the next day? Holy hell, I'd have to go on my knees apologizing to Roxas before I ever screw up that badly to have no sex."

"…What?"

"…You were talking about no fucking tomorrow, correct?"

"…Axel, get the hell out of the gutter. And 'fucking' was definitely an adjective in that sentence, not a gerund."

"…Oh."

"…Bloody fuck."

"Whoa. That's a tragic visual."

"Axel."

"Yes?"

"Shut the bloody fuck up."

-

"Riku, I –"

"Save it. There's nothing neither you nor I could say to fix this. Fuck it, it's been over. Okay, it's been over for the longest."

"Please… I can explain – and then there's the baby –"

"– Baby? You killed it, I saw the papers, its dead, been dead for a week, and there's nothing that could reverse the harsh reality that our kid is six feet under."

-

"Shit." The epiphany of my life, and no, it's not in the form of compost or dung. The word is used to categorize my predicament(s) of sorts. Well, I guess I could start from the beginning.

Hi. Hello. Hola, and that's about as much of the Spanish language that I know of, despite taking over three years of private tutoring. Oh, good times. Anyways, off track, but the name's Riku. Yamamoto Riku, which seems sort of like saying my existence is redundant because Yamamoto pertains to "base of the mountain" and Riku "land." Yeah, profound stuff there.

I'm divorced. Not legally, but it's in the works. Wife accused me of infidelity when, really, she was the main culprit, the one who executed the coup d'état on our marriage. Can't really blame her; I'm a jackass. And a complete asshole with an inferiority complex bigger than the size of Russia and China combined.

And because I'm such a jackass suffering from an IC, I now have both a vandalism offence and another misdemeanor – which I will not even elaborate on because it was plain S-T-U-P-I-D – under my belt. Oh, yes, staying in the slammer for a night or two was just splendid – thank the Lord Dad has operatives in the police force. Connections, bless you.

I studied abroad, away from my Japanese homeland, which could explain why I still live in my shitty American excuse of an apartment in the same shitty American neighborhood for the past six years. Oh yeah, did I mention my wrinkly landlord wants to pop my "cherry"?

Sorry for the mental image, visual learners. He kind of freaks me out too.

So, out of that, kiddies, you learned that I'm a complete and hopeless-of-ever-being-cured asshole; studied my ass off in America with only enough compensation to stay in the same shitty place; have a crazy, lust-monkey of an old man as a rent-bucket; and a soon-to-be divorcee.

Any questions?

Yeah, didn't think so.

-

Oh, yeah, forgot to mention it earlier, but I'm going celibate.

Thank you for your time.

-

"Is it true?"

I peered from my notepad I was diligently scribbling on, and gave a dead-pan look to my left.

"What is true?" I asked tersely.

Axel, my fiery redhead knight in shining armor, cocked his elbow against mine. "Y'know, you and Rena…" he left the rest of his statement hanging, hoping I would finish it for him.

I continued to stare, and he stared back. His emerald eyes looked dull in the shade of the blinds upon the plastic glass window. After a while, he sighed. "Come on. You serious?"

I shrugged and took a deliberate sip of my coffee. I blatantly ignored the rest of the crew's ogling.

We all – Axel, Roxas, Tidus, Wakka, Naminé, Yuna, and Paine-without-her-other-half – occupied our usual spot in Andy's, a small diner that held more appeal to people who despised corporate fast-food joints; (such as ourselves) they also had the best milkshakes in the damn country.

Not too much later a waitress brought us our food, precariously balancing seven plates with two dainty arms. I noticed she looked rather cute in her apron, but nothing too exciting to keep my drifting attention. She left with the echo of clinking silverware and plates in her wake.

Tidus was the first to shake his mane of dirty blond hair; the fucking hippie. "Jeez," he started, lopsided frown plastered on his face. "You would think that it'd come down to this a little sooner…" Paine swiftly punched his arm, eyes sort of admonishing him in her own right. "Ow…"

Naminé, fledging artist with more talent than experience, seemed to agree. "Honestly, Tidus, do you even know of the word tact?" Yuna, his girlfriend of eight months, nodded in agreement.

"Oh, come on! I was just saying what everyone's thinking–!"

"He's an idiot – of course not." I glanced from my notebook again to challenge Tidus' glare. I shrugged again, and then added, "It's only natural." I was suddenly more irritable than before I received the call for a 'gathering.'

Then Axel deflated visibly, spreading his arms out so that now one hung loosely from his boyfriend's shoulder, who only responded with a quick nonchalant expression that hid so much more. The redhead leaned back against the booth's cushion. "This is unbelievable." I cocked an eyebrow, rapidly writing away again, not even watching my itchy hand anymore and taking more gulps of my now cold coffee, which was then pried away by the time Axel went on with a – "I mean, you guys, here we are," he waved a hand towards the general vicinity: "In Andy's. Where we used to talk about our high school-university woe-woes drama in this very booth, where we fucking laughed our troubles of teenage angst over greasy burgers and fries, and now, now, the fuck – We're here talking about Riku's broken marriage?" He slammed his forehead against his free palm. "We're fucking old."

I bristled, shifting slightly towards the window to slouch my side beside it. Closing my eyes, I heard Wakka's laugh, as nervous as it sounded. "Ya, well, can't do much about it, ya?"

"True," Paine interjected, the sounds of munching heard from where she sat. "Can't be helped."

"Anyways," Tidus pressed. "This isn't the time to have a damned epiphany about our ages; Riku's. Getting. Divorced."

He tossed it out like it was a curse, and in a way, it sort of spelled uncertainty in some part of my life.

"It's not the end of the world as you make it off to be," Naminé quietly offered, at least thoughtful with her words. Unlike some douche bag who will forever be named anonymous… "Rena, she, well – her character – wasn't it a bit, I don't know, off?"

"Well," Yuna held nervously, "when you say it like that, and actually think about it…"

"I think she was in it for the money," Tidus seethed, obviously channeling years of discomfort; courtesy of one Rena Briggs. Briefly Yuna's eyes saddened a fraction, but vanished in under seconds.

I snorted, eyes still shut. "Who isn't?" It's a bitter sentence that holds far more truth than I would have liked. I then blinked; the corner of my eyes nearly prickly.

The group looked a little offended by the comment, most likely believing it applied to them as well, but thankfully Roxas broke the thick ice. "I don't know. Briggs was incompetent –"

"– And melodramatic," Axel supplied.

"– And conniving." That was Tidus.

"Oh, please, stop…" Yuna started apprehensively, knowing she was treading uncharted territory.

"– And utterly troublesome," Paine said through her burger.

Roxas softly added a "And an inadequate match for our Riku." I responded with a bark of laughter; it sounded hollow even to my own ears. Peripherally, I read the clock hanging above the cash register. 5:36. Sun is still up. A confirmation that summer still clung in the air.

A flash of a bright smile, matching with bright red lips, flowing curly brown hair, blue eyes – and then it was gone. Someone in the booth behind me coughed.

"Riku, dude, don't you have anything to say about this?" huffed Axel, staring me down, neglecting the nondescript glance Roxas gave him. I shifted again.

Wakka shook his head momentarily, idly fingering his trademark headband resting around his neck, something he recently took a habit of since graduating from the local college. "Is it really necessary to bash her? I mean, it takes two to tango, and it's evident that Rena wasn't in all the wrong, so –"

"So you're saying that it's Riku's fault?" Tidus interrupted.

"Tidus," Yuna reprimanded, placing a hand on his arm, but if he felt the gesture, he didn't show it on his face.

"No," Naminé answered; calm to a fault. "Wakka here is saying that Rena and Riku both had issues during their marriage, and so we have nothing to justify our back-lashing. For goodness sake, she isn't even in the States, let alone anywhere we might actually bump into again! Just let it go!" Her voice rose slowly with each word. She swiveled her head to where I sat on her right. "Riku…" she began, eyes searching for answers that weren't there.

"So," Axel drawled. "Can't say anything?" The taunt was directed at me. "No? Don't have anything to say, hm? Why, did she break your ice-heart –?"

I slammed my notepad closed.

Immediate silence took over us. Really, of all the – my lips tightened until my jaw throbbed. Placing my part of the pay forcibly on the table, I gathered my things and turned towards the exit. That was when all hell broke loose.

"Oh, well that's fucking perfect!" Axel roared.

"Axel, was that really necessary? And would you stop flailing your arms everywhere?!"

A hand slapped against skin.

"Get your damn ass back here!"

"Tidus."

I fished out a cigarette and lighter from the pocket of my trench, flicked, and finally took the anticipated drag of the hour.

"This is getting ridiculous… and so goddamn troublesome…."

"Amen to that, mon."

"For the love of god, Riku, I'm gonna –" I never really got to hear the rest of that, because the door shut behind me, clacking the attached bell to signal my leave.

-

We all met in high school through the foreign exchange program, where an abundance of us frolicked; mainly we clustered in one setting, one clique, and perpetually isolated ourselves from the American students. Axel, though, was an exception. Roxas wasn't even part of the Jap Taps because of his age.

I liked the group hugging the most.

Graduating in the class of '00, we, the formally known Japanese Tap-Roku-Go-Ki-Miyas (because someone thought it was sane to deign Tidus as name-picker, Jap Taps for short), parted, kissing, crying, crooning from old Radiohead albums we stole from a Psych teacher two years before, and on the same day, found out I was marrying by proxy.

That was the first time I smoked through a cartridge of smokes in one day.

Since then, we still were close, but I supposed our friendship harmony had faltered over the years, mainly due to distance, school, jobs, and just life in general. Granted, we tried to put as much effort as possible to find time to interact, it's just. I got married (and look where it got me). Axel and Roxas started to (finally, for the love of whatever good high deity) date, and it may be getting real serious. Paine found something everlasting in Rikku (oh, please laugh at the irony). Yuna juggles with thirty pre-schoolers every weekday (being a teacher and all) and a douche bag for a boyfriend. Tidus and Wakka are absorbed in their jobs of being state champions of Blitzball. And Naminé is struggling to finish art school, what with her family tugging her away from her dreams with the stubbornness of a mule.

The phrase 'life sucks' doesn't even begin to describe it.

I pondered on this as I settled my carrier bag on the empty seat next to me, surprisingly being so because of the inactivity in the terminal that Thursday night. A book lied open on my lap, my focus being distracted from Harriet Beecher Stowe and to the clear glass window adjacent from me. My mouth was close enough to fog the surface, the grayish tinge heavily contrasting the inky blue of the night sky. Some stars littered above, but there was no moon tonight. I inclined my head sideways; strands of my hair almost caught in my teeth, closed my eyes, and released a sigh – long and so so so tired – that I didn't know I was holding.

There was a crackle in the intercoms, then a "Now boarding Gate D-3. Now boarding –" Slowly opening my eyes, I straightened in my place and stretched out the kinks. I shoved the book – I needed to tape the binding once I landed – into my carrier bag, the zipper deafening in the surroundings. Someone bumped into me as I made my way to the designated gray entry, where a prim male stood behind the counter to collect the necessities.

His hand lingered far too long of a second for my comfort. I hastily walked through the corridor to reach the plane.

After roosting in my seat and ousting the steward in the mini-skirt and five-inch heels to stay away from the proximity, ten minutes passed before the plane actually left the airport; ten more, and then I pulled the makeshift covers provided over my head.

When the pilot finished his drone of progress, I peeked from under the material and saw a shooting star pass the plane's oval window, leaving a blazing trail in its course.

I think, from somewhere between my desolate mind and my subconscious brimming with slumber, I'm missing something, something… imperative, which could then explain my utter lack of empathy upon the news of my crumbling marriage; which could explain my utter lack in enjoying life like I used to; (it's sad to say I don't even remember if I actually did, so I might be wrong on that) which could explain why I even married in the first place, knowing I could have refused and the decision would have been wholeheartedly final; which could explain a whole fucking lot that I'm actually going to stop rambling on my thoughts and trying to organize them in mental cabinets. I allowed myself to nod off before jerking my whole body in a 180 to accommodate my long torso in the cramped seat.

Yeah, life sucks doesn't even cut it anymore.

-

Her face is devoid of her collected composure; tears marred her mascara and dampened the lipstick, red as blood, smearing when she brought her hand across her face. I'm so sorry, she repeats, over and over, a constant drone, so sorry. She hasn't slept in a week.

The room is in disarray, a reflection of sorts of her and her distress; clothes strewn across the carpet, some furniture overturned, the bed in the center – close to where we stood – lacked a certain taste of order with the sheets haphazardly falling from the edges, and in the middle of the mattress, almost hidden by dirtied sheets, lay a simple small black box.

I don't know when I had stopped, when had I stopped breathing? For a moment, I didn't see the blurs of her tear-ridden face, and looked past her shoulder, to the large pane of window that took much of her condo – her 22nd birthday gift from me – and really look.

So sorry…

There, resting snug around her left finger, was a diamond ring substituting for the familiar golden band.

Oh god… Just… I'm so…

Closed my eyes; blinked, opened, closed them again, my hands were shaking uncontrollably – I need a smoke. Where are my fucking cigarettes?

Riku, honey, please… I, I don't know how to explain…

I shook my head once, heard a small noise manifest in the back of my throat, half a whimper, half a groan. Finally, she finally reached to touch me, gripped the sleeve of my weather-worn suit, and I felt so cold. She abruptly let her weak grasp go, mouth opened round and I just…

Riku?

I threw the small black box as hard as I could, relishing in the sound of clattering broken glass and petty screaming.

-

I woke up in a cold sweat, tangled viciously in the covers, and the sounds of the bustling airport rang through my ears.

-

"Riku."

Swirling and bellowing smoke rose toward the ceiling, spreading in its wake a nice fragrance of sulfur and a slight cherry tang. My cigarette dangled between my index and middle finger.

"Riku, please."

I crinkled the bud on the ashtray and finally took a good look at my mother.

Her face has endured many laugh – and bitter suffering – lines, angles that paved across her ivory skin, mapping out some of her life story for display, for the public-eye. She had ebony black hair, almost midnight black streaked with starlight, and eyes that shone in the afternoon light that filtered through the opened shoji doors. A slight breeze from outside mused with her hair, which was held high below her scalp. The kimono she donned on fluttered, almost breathing life into the flying cranes and sakura petals and soft designs of gold.

I quickly averted my eyes. I gave her a curt apology.

"Riku," she began, reaching over and lightly touching my hand, still poised over the ashtray in the center of the low table, "Riku. My son." I am so sorry, is left unsaid.

I snorted briskly, because really, there was nothing to be sorry of, Mother. Rena was already a thing of the past, something that I decided three days ago as I sat through the airplane ride straight to Sapporo.

"Mother," I said in flowing Japanese, "I'm only staying for… research, not mourning." I worked as a part-time novelist for a friend. She has always had an affinity for Japan and its culture since meeting me during my first year in university. "So, no worries." My smile seemed even off to me. I hesitantly removed my hand from her light grasp.

Yamamoto Haruki appeared slightly offended by my dismissal, but she should have known better; she's my mother. "Very well."

I smiled again, this time more softly than most. I occupied myself by fingering the bordering around the sleeve of my kimono. The outfit was casual, and accommodated quite nicely with the calm autumn. "Nice. Who made these?"

Sensing the slight, yet serious curious tint in my voice – and my desperate attempt to change the subject, her stern mouth pursed, stilled, faltered, and curved upward around the edges. "A friend." She picked up her neglected tea from the table, poured minutes ago by a shaky servant girl who stole sideway glances. "A dear friend of mine," she reiterated through her delicate sip. One of my eyebrows rose, but I said nothing.

"So," Haruki drawled, gingerly placing her empty cup back down, "How long?"

"For a month."

She gave me a perplexed expression. "I didn't mean your stay, Riku."

My throat constricted, but if Haruki noticed she didn't acknowledge it. "And what have you referred me to, Mother?" The dropped hand lightly tapped the tatami mat covering the floor. Mother insisted culture as a basic principal of life, and has done so for many years. I found the matting unbearable as I shifted, my knees beginning to ache from the strain.

"Certainly you already know what I wanted to ask." She sighed, the sound ancient, but stern. "I spoke to her. Before your arrival to Hokkaido."

A pang of betrayal washed over me. "I see."

Haruki didn't say anything for an instant before, "I told her she was an ungrateful wench who sabotaged her own future with her… tryst. Insufferable, I told her, and incompetent in anything she's done, because I know now how she's succeeded in life, what with her whorish–"

"Mother," I cut in. "I – You –" Let's not do this. I remained silent, then opened my mouth, paused, and closed it shut. "I'd rather forget it all," I muttered, staring at my lap.

"Son, you need to stop self-wallowing and –"

"Tsubaki, the Lady would like some more tea," I said to the open air on my right without breaking contact on my numb knees.

"– consider yourself accepting the idea that she was deceitful from the very beginning –"

"Master Yamamoto, here is the requested tea," the shaky server girl returned, entering from the outside with the tray laden with steaming jasmine tea. She bowed, ruffled, and straightened like a stiff ruler as she picked up the china and placed it on the table.

"– Don't you dare ignore me –"

"Thanks." I gathered the newly poured tea in a nimble hold. "Here," I mumbled, offering it with two hands, one wrapped around the cup and the other steadying it.

Haruki – calm, cool and collected Mother – blinked at me, who may have looked smug under the clear autumn sky. The silence was so deafening that I could hardly hear the rustling leaves of the maple tree brushing against each other.

In one swift movement, a hand snatched the cup from my grasp, and with a flick of a quick wrist, my face felt the wet impact of jasmine tea. I slowly blinked through the wetness, vision a tad blurry, but still could distinguish between the horrified look on the girl's face and Mother's flaring nostrils and the steam shooting from her ears.

It was quite comical, to say the least.

I took the back of my hand and wiped the tea off my face before the girl gestured a handkerchief she mysteriously conjured up. "Right." I didn't know what I was referring to, fairly realizing I was making coherent thoughts in the recesses of my mind – like, Why did I come here? What reason did I leave my life back in the States? What made me so sure about this (if I was even sure at all)? How was I ever going to… (And I never really got to find out the last parts of that) – But it only made the situation, well, worse.

My mother narrowed her eyes, steely and experienced with murdering lesser men, and I stayed firm, scarcely going to relent – though my hands faintly shook.

We stayed there, just like that, for another hour, following rather easily into pregnant silence after the turmoil of awkwardness that came with visiting the traditional house. My father could have been there to witness, but he… works in the business. I hardly ever see him.

After being shooed away by the impatience caused by sheer boredom gnawing in me, (I laughed to myself as Mother gave me this incredulous look as I left the washitsu (1)) I listlessly made my way back to my – no, it's not yours, it's… – room and slid the door shut behind me. I choked on my spit as I slumped against the thin material, the straight ridges of the door biting into my back.

I didn't know why I wanted to stay there. But it beat sleeping awkwardly on my Power Ranger-esque bed in the old room, where memories haunted me in every corner. How the hell did Japanese superheroes scare me shitless, I would never know.

For awhile I sat there, despondent and a little jaded, with my arms stretched out before me and my legs bent to support them; my head sometimes fell back against the shoji's framework, the light thump-thump both pretty reassuring and depressing.

I took sight of my surroundings as the time slowly passed: the walls were bare, the creamy color of them dimmed by the lack of afternoon-light; the door of a storage closet for the room was ajar and showed a sliver of a pile of futons I would be retiring on later that day; a small paper lantern nestled in a corner atop an intricately designed low-desk, along with some books that I could tell from my position to be subjected on tea ceremonies and etiquette, and an overturned picture frame, tarnished by time and neglect. All these items were products of a childhood I long forgotten, and chose to do so intentionally.

You know, there are people who just mindlessly forget because life tends to do that to them, and there are those who choose to control what they want and don't want to remember. I'm in the latter category and would like to stay in it, but with my record, I believe it's becoming unhealthy to not only myself, but to my family, friends, acquaintances, and those who I will later encounter, especially if I truly want to pursue another relationship.

But, here's the dilemma – I've spent most of my life with some girl I met through emails and postcards in high school and was married to her, never dated in college, stayed in the aforementioned relationship until just recently, so I'm a little more or less pubescent in that department.

Hell, I've never even fucking experimented with both sexes. Though, it'd go against my one-person show nature of being absolutely devoted to one individual at a time. However, since my list of exes has been short since 1982, (ha, ha, thank you God for twenty-fucking-four years without really satisfying my libido…) I'm pretty much clueless on the whole "dating scene." Granted, I've maybe slept around maybe once during university-days, and I don't even recall the girl's name or face. Tragic, but that's just life.

Moving along.

As I situated myself back into more present times, I opened my eyes, never actually realizing I closed them in the first place, and stared at the shoji doors adjacent to me. I could make out the outlines of the various servants residing in Mother's "castle." I rolled my eyes. Dad was always the eccentric when it came to giving out gifts.

With a wistful smile, I got up, rather wobbly from the lasting exposure of tatami mats, turned, and opened the doors, awaiting my impending punishment.

-

1: washitsu – a type of Japanese room, very traditional; Wikipedia it, and there is a picture of what I was going for in that particular scene.
2: tatami – the traditional flooring used in many Asian households that are still used, reflecting of olden days. My family used to own one, but it's old and breaking around the edges.

Author's End: Well. Yeah, hope it's to anyone's liking.

It was strange writing this, because I kept jumping back and forth, filling in spaces I thought needed elaboration, erased some which I felt needed to be told later, even wrote some of the scenes from the middle and branched off a beginning and end. It was a little different to approach this type of plot, because I'm so used to clichéd drama, so I was a little apprehensive with fleshing out Riku's narration. I, well, channeled a certain voice I connected with from way back, around the time when I was finishing Chain of Memories and itching through the exposition of the sequel, because I was thoroughly intrigued with Riku – the rather anti-hero disillusioned by his actions but still stood firm when it came with anything Sora-related – and well, I found this Riku to develop from that. So that could obviously explain the OOC-ness. Sorry.