She's used to it, no sweat. Her thick skin has kept her warm through the winters—one more mouthful of prejudice isn't going to hurt. It smarts, though.
The first instance is before they've formally met. Yuna and Lulu pull her over into a huddle and explain—about the pilgrimage, about Wakka. Rikku nods and says, "Yep!" as if hiding who she is comes like a second (or third) language. She smiles and shakes his hand, and introduces herself and tries not to make too-close eye contact.
"Those sand-blasted grease-monkeys," Wakka mutters under his breath as they go walking down the causeway to Guadosalam. "Never trust 'em."
It smarts, but in the evening, at the inn, when the others have gone for a stroll that they couldn't muster the effort to take, Rikku shares with him the concept of item mixing. They sit on the floor like children, legs crossed, spreading out gadgets across the patterned carpet. He toys with them, and she explains, and demonstrates to his delight. He oohs and aahs with a genuine interest; this odd science that never made it to his island home, something shiny and new, and metallically compelling, almost.
"What's that?" Wakka asks, pointing at the canister peeking out of her bag, an effervescent blue liquid in glass.
"That's—" Rikku starts, looking over at the Al Bhed potion. "My own personal brand of healing. Try some—here," she snatches it up.
"I don't know," Wakka says, frowning, unsure. He's leaning back in his sitting posture, one leg in an upright arch, arm resting over his knee.
"Come on, don't be a baby! It'll clean that nick on your elbow right up. Trust me."
Wakka hesitates for a moment as she unscrews the cap and pours a glob of the substance onto her fingertips—thick, gel-like. "Well, alright then." He pulls back his torn armband to reveal the mark.
She smiles and rubs the potion into the scabbed wound with gentle fingers, making him flinch slightly before the soothing sensation kicks in.
"That potion of yours really worked a treat," he says the following morning, flexing his arm, showing off the skin. "Not even a mark." The flashes her the thumbs up, and a smile that's full of warmth and that appreciation—a tie of friendship.
The next instance is on the Thunder Plains, when she's almost too worried by her surroundings to notice. But she notices him kicking the head off a rogue machina and spitting on it—the spittle sizzling on the fried circuit board.
"Filthy heathens," he says, with vitriol that stabs at her harder than the thunder claps overhead.
It's always been difficult to get her head around this idea—this fear, and hatred of the unknown, the "forbidden". The Al Bhed have always shared in Spira's sorrow, but not in its land, its community.
Like black sheep Yevon forced them out to live as nomads in the desert, to pepper the corners of the cities like wasps—an irritant, a danger.
After Wakka has walked away she kneels down beside the machina, her eyes flitting frantically for fear of a lightning bolt. With quivering, fidgeting hands she dismantles the body of metal and picks out all of the valuable parts, the stuff that could be used in mixing, a pocketful of cogs and bolts and screws for weapon advances.
"Hey," she hears from behind her, and nearly loses her skin. "What're you doing?"
Behind her Wakka looks perilous. He looks tall now, like stone, solid in the eyes, a hint of interrogation in the voice. The lightning shines behind him in brutal flashes. The friendship tie slackens, and he almost seems hostile.
"Some things come in handy on a journey like this," she says, slipping the bits and pieces into her bag. "Even if Yevon doesn't like them."
Wakka walks closer, and she realises that it isn't necessarily aggression, but concern. "Don't be messing with that stuff, Rikku," he warns. "People who's messed with machina always come to a sticky end—I know it only too well."
"I don't think Sin's going to come get me just because I took a few nuts and bolts," she almost snaps, touchy from the weather. She gives him a look that's almost an apology and continues forward, holding herself tight, shivering from the fear.
Inside the travel agency she feels a little less scared, but stupider than before. She sits alone at the opposite side of the room, resting her head in her drawn-up knees.
"Hey," she hears again, this time with the familiar warmth. Wakka pads over and sits down next to her. "Why you so sad? You that scared of thunder?"
"Yeah," she says, half-laughing in spite of herself. "It's not so much that anymore. It's more—"
She looks over at the other side of the room where the others are. Tidus is spinning some glass object on his finger for a second before the store clerk wrestles it off him with a chiding finger-wag.
Kimahri stands by the doorway, gazing out into the storm with his spooky amber eyes. Lulu and Auron are talking in low voices, looking solemn and serious—yet strangely unreadable—as ever.
"I'm an idiot," she says, laughing again, but dipping her head into her knees to stop herself from crying. Her voice quavers slightly when she says, "Sir Auron thinks I'm weak—so does Lulu, and Kimahri. And I am." She lifts her head to wipe the tears from her eyes before they can spill over. "I mean, look at Yuna. Look at what she's doing—not scared at all. Or just hiding it really, really well."
"Hey, now," Wakka says, putting a hand on her arm for reassurance. "You're doing great. Yuna's had a lot of time to prepare—she hides her feelings well. We all feel bad at times like these, ya? Yuna just doesn't show it, because she doesn't want to make us sad, too. But we all feel like that."
Rikku dries her eyes again, and laughs. "I feel so silly."
"Don't! I couldn't do half the stuff I seen you do when I was your age. I was too boneheaded to even think about getting off my beach, let alone go trailing across Spira on a pilgrimage."
"Yuna really is brave, isn't she?" Rikku says, the sadness heavy in her voice.
"She sure is," Wakka agrees. "But brave as she is, she still needs us to back her up, you know? She can face anything if she knows that people behind her can face it, too."
Rikku remains silent, but nods anyway, thinking of the end—the Final Summoning, how she could never face something that huge, no matter how old she was, or how many loved ones stood at her back, steadfast and strong, tearless. The further they went, the more the pilgrimage became like a salted path—with no flowers, and no life, but a funeral march—for miles and miles.
"So no more tears," Wakka says, tapping her arm gently, with kindness.
Then there was Lake Macalania. The ice sparkles all around them, the chill pervades. The machines descend, another lie unravels; the truth lies naked. At first he sounds confused and almost hurt, then—
"A heathen!" The fire is in his eyes and on his tongue. They argue on the ice, their voices, arguments, clashing in ugly dissonance—persistent and unrelenting, the irresolvable. Even with the others behind her, she folded when he turned his back. "Ha!" he laughed, with scorn and spite.
She tells Tidus she almost cried, and then remembers. "Just kidding! It's okay." It's not, but it has to be. It's not okay for Yuna, but it has to be, and you can't be upset. Right? Right. No sweat. It's okay. She's used to it.
She can still remember the happy lies her dad would tell her as a child—about why they would have to stand away from the others on the pathway when they went to Bevelle or Luca, why people would narrow their eyes, all cold and mean, whenever they'd go past. He'd tell her it's because they're special—a special people with special secrets that the other people of Spira weren't allowed to have. And that's why they were so mean—they were just jealous. "But who needs 'em, eh?" He'd tackle her then and tickle her before she could ask questions.
Wakka doesn't speak to her for so long. At the temple she can feel the shared heat of their glares—the monk in front of her, denying her entry, and Wakka behind her, supporting the faith.
She wants to like the way Wakka's voice catches when he cries the word "Maester!" in disbelief. She wants to like the way ignorance falls on its own sword—she wants to like the sadness in Wakka's eyes when he sees behind the veil; that Yevon is not pure and noble, but the opposite: a temple of lies and contradictions.
It's too awful to like something like that. For all of his immovable morals and beliefs, he is honest and kind, sensitive, good-hearted. The pride in the level stature of his shoulders has slackened by the time she finds him on Bikanel Island, kicking at sand and grumbling. He glares, and fights for his beliefs, hangs on white-knuckled when Lulu, behind him, has quietly cast her feelings to the side for the sake of Yuna.
Home goes up like a bonfire, the sandstorm raging around it. "Like happy festival fireworks, yeah?" She cries on the way to Bevelle, alone, in the cabin toilet, covering her mouth. She cries, and feels ashamed and silly all over again, and wishes that she had Wakka there to tell her that it was okay, and that she was doing well—but it wasn't like that. Not on a journey like this. She waits until the red in her eyes subsides before she hits the bridge again. He's quiet, but his stance of one of apology. She turns the cold shoulder so she can focus.
Maesters and murderers, liars and corrupters—blood on prayer-ground, machines inside the temple. It crumbles into little pieces—scatters of lies, interest and good intentions.
On the Calm Lands she takes time aside when the others are off exploring, or just sitting on their own. Yuna and Tidus are counting clouds on their backs, and Lulu is talking with a chocobo trainer. The trainer has to keep the bird on a tight rein because Kimahri freaks it out so much. Auron just seems to vanish now and again, then pipes up from behind like he's always been there.
She feels like here she can final let her guard down. There is nothing and no one to fear, so she sits at one side, in the shade of a cliff-ledge, reading a book. Then she hears, "Hey!" and her guard comes up again.
"Don't worry," he says, catching her look. "I'm not going to bite or nothing."
"I didn't think you were," she says, casting her eyes down at her book again, pretending to read.
Wakka stands for a moment in silence, awkward, hands on his hips, feet shuffling, looking at the ground as he finds his words. "Listen, Rikku," he starts. "I—"
"Wakka, you don't have to—"
"No, look, I—" He pauses for a moment. "I wanted to tell you sorry. I don't—hate—Al Bhed. I mean, I don't hate you—I mean—" He sighs. "My head's all over the place at the moment. I just wanted you to know that I don't hate you. And that, I'd like it if we could still be friends, you know? For Yuna—no, but not just for Yuna. For—" He stops and silently curses his bumbling. "I guess I got a lot of thinking to do, ya?"
"I understand, Wakka," she says, looking over at him. "Really, it's okay. No sweat. You don't have to apologise anymore." She smiles, and he returns it, and then she goes back to her reading.
He doesn't leave, and stands there for a moment in silence. Slowly he starts walking over to her, as if testing thin ice. "What—what are you reading there?"
"This?" she says, flipping the book up to show the spine. "Oh, it's just an old Al Bhed story my mom gave me when I was little. It's not exactly a thinker's book, but it's nice to read when you're away from home." Home—gone; wreckage in the sand.
"I know what you mean," Wakka says, tentatively sitting down beside her. He lifts up the white pendant on his necklace with one hand, "This was my pop's. I take it to every big game, every long journey—just something to keep you grounded, you know? Reminds you of the important things in life."
"Yeah," Rikku says, warming into the conversation, feeling the friendship tie grow back. The following silence doesn't even feel awkward.
"What does that say?" Wakka asks, pointing to the worn and tattered cover of her book.
"Dra Rybbo Cbened—it means—The Happy Spirit. It's kind of a kiddie story, you know, kind of silly, I guess."
"No!" Wakka insists. "Kid stories are the best. They just seem like something nice to tell the kids now and then, but if you think about them, they make a lot of sense. Always have a good message."
He nods sagely, and Rikku giggles. "Well, when you put it that way—"
"I mean it!" He laughs now, too. "I bet we could make up our own story right here to tell our kids—after we defeat Sin—for good—and come back home, with Yuna. Something about—uh—some boneheaded shoopuf who—who—refuses to drink from the pond because his friend told him it was dirty, and looks away from it every time he passes. But when he finally drinks, he finds out that it's not bad after all. In fact—it's great!"
Rikku sits with a grin on her lips and an eyebrow quirked as he fumbles through his story, then says, "Are you calling me a pond?"
"Well, it doesn't have to be a pond," he says, scratching the back of his head with unease. "It could be—a fruit, or something?"
"Oh, that's much better," she laughs.
For a while there are no words, and the two of them simply sit, rub their bare feet on the grass, soaking in the sun, the silence before the storm. Wakka puts his head back and stretches his neck, a shadow of prickly-black stubble covering his skin. Rikku lies on her back and lifts her arms to the sky, wiggling her fingers in the thin, light air.
They're not weary. They feel stronger than ever. It once seemed a distant dream, but now they really think there's a chance—a chance to bring Yuna back with them after the fight. They believe that they can find a way through this maze—because they've learned things that others before them haven't; about the teachings, about the real meaning of the pilgrimage—the friendship tie that thickens and grows stronger with each step and each fall, one after the other. They know now how one whole is so much stronger than two halves.
"I was wondering," he says, when evening's on its way and they're lying head-to-head, watching the sky dim. He's got her book in his hands, and he's flicking through the pages, looking at the pictures.
"What?"
"Do you think you could teach me some Al Bhed?"
She giggles. "Sure thing! I'm not a great teacher, but it's way easier than people think."
"Alright! So, uh, what's this mean?" he asks, pointing to the first word on the opening page.
Rikku rolls to her side slightly to see the book, so that their cheeks touch, and she peers at where his finger is placed. "Uh, that says—oh—Uhla ibuh y desa—it means Once upon a time."
"Oh."
"Y'see, all you have to do is translate the alphabetical letters. It's like, all jumbled up. U in Al Bhed is the same as O in the common tongue."
"Oh, I get it. And an H is an N, ya?"
"You got it!"
"Wow," he says, laughing dryly. "All these years—I never knew it was that easy."
She doesn't move her head, even though his stubble kind of chafes her cheek. It's in a good way, though—she doesn't particularly smell of expensive perfume sitting there in the dirt after a long trek from the woods. She doesn't expect him to think anything of that.
"I'm glad, you know," he says, staring into the book, the words. "That I got to find all this out before—you know. Just in case it all goes—bad—I'm glad."
"Me too," she says.
"Can you read to me some more?" he asks, indicating the book.
She reads to him, pointing out the letters, helping him out when he tries it for himself, and for a few hours they can forget about what's ahead. It doesn't even feel that hard. It will be, but she can feel the weight lift a little. Be strong—no tears. No sweat. She can handle it. She's used to it by now.