Street ten stories down.
Drowning. Drowning in Riku. Drowning in smoke the color of despair and sour-copper mockery ice and air so clean and pure.
Behind. Blue eyes. Stupid, happy smile. Bounce in his step. Weightless. He speaks. Normal voice. Normal words. Normal person.
Except no, he isn't.
Hey. Looks down, up, into his coffee. Holds it out. Cappuccino? You need it. Cup on the ground. Sips. Dark, bitter liquid burns.
Except no, it doesn't.
Riku sits. Stares. Blueblue sky. Not the color of his eyes. Breathes.
He stands. Leaves. Just another smile in a crowd.
Except no, he isn't.