He said he'd stay. Was he lying, or was this a change of plans? His spot is cold, empty, useless, forgotten by everyone else except him. Between their Savage Nymph and Other Bearer. They don't pay attention, if anything they don't care in the least. For all they knew, he had chewed on a live grenade and his hopes of a dud not being in his favour.
He was disposed of.
He was a nothing. Clueless, useless, featureless. FLAWLESS.
Truly flawless? Not quite. Possibly, maybe, perhaps, most likely close enough to a word called "perfection" than the rest.
He was connected, interweaved with the Other's soul, and it was this said connection that tore him away - tore him apart - so he was confused from false emotion and memories born from neglect and carelessness. The invisible connection on the heart he so craved is what brought him to the conclusion:
"I'm leaving."
He had had a lick of those words before but, of course, his ignorant self hadn't put the pieces together nor even dreamed of wasting the time to do so. Something was released from his throat; something that resembled a chuckle, but drowning in so much hidden sorrow and pity it was impossible for it to sound like a laugh. Instead he covered it with a stifled cough and stared outward. The other stood, silently fuming at the neglectful vibes coming off his friend. The second friend, all silence and false understanding and pretty blue eyes, watched as he walked away.
That was the last time. Ever.
Had he known, he would have said something. He would have pleaded, negotiated, screamed, cursed, kissed, hugged, laughed, anything to keep his body and spirit and all out being there for one more solid second. Did he? Hell no. was there regret? If there was such a thing for him to feel, hell yes.
You see, the problem was, if he had a heart he would have stopped his friend, no doubt. But since he's a Nobody - an empty shell devoid of feeling and love and full understanding - he wasn't able to tell he was serious that last time. He would and could never feel what the friend was feeling.
He'd had a sense. A trickle. A lick of the feeling.
Loneliness, which was followed by denial, which was dipped with hatred, which was coated with self-deprecation, which was drowning with pity. Pitypitypity. That word alone sent shivers of repulsion down his spine because he felt. He now knew, comprehended, what the friend was going through, if vaguely. And the comprehension was even more gut-wrenching and sickening later on when the dawning realization that he was selfish enough to think that the friend was bluffing.
What was his name again? Sora? That didn't sound right…
He had forgotten. He had fucking forgotten his fucking best friend's fucking name.
Fuck.
He was that ignorant and heartless. Maybe he should have chewed on a live grenade. To see how it would feel like to have himself explode and limbs fly and blood slide down walls so they'd find him in pieces and have to hose him off the ground.
Anything to remember and feel and to be.
To mend everything together, like a broken vase and glue, would be more than a miracle. To do that, it would be a dream. A solid, heartfelt dream. But judging from how he is what he is, that was impossible.