"Riku," Sora called quietly. "Did I," he paused. "Did I hurt you again?"
But, why?, the young boy wondered, absentmindedly picking up the sketchbook left there.
Ah, I shouldn't open this, he admonished himself, setting it on the coffee table.
He looked towards the bedroom door, now closed. Just when I thought we were getting closer again, this distance.
His thoughts raced.
Maybe I should check on him. Maybe he wants me to leave him alone. Maybe he wants me to sleep out here. Maybe he wouldn't mind. Maybe-
"Ah, this is driving me crazy!", Sora cried, getting up and knocking on his own door. "Riku? Can I come in?", he called with mock confidence.
When no response came, he wondered vaguely if Riku had already fallen asleep. Maybe he really was just tired.
He opened the door gently. "Riku?", he whispered, tip-toeing in.
The worried boy shivered from the atmosphere he felt there. Although it was his home, it was too quiet, too dark, too different.
"Riku?", he called again, approaching his bedside table and turning on the dim lamp. A dry chuckle left his lips when he saw the position the larger boy had chosen to sleep in. He was over the blanket and on his stomach.
"Come on, Riku, you'll be sore if you sleep like that," he sighed with a smile, pulling on the sleeping boy's large shoulder. He thought the endeavor of turning him over would exert more effort, but Riku moved with ease. Huh? Sora thought, his breath catching as Riku's head lolled to the side after being rolled onto his back.
"Riku?", Sora asked shakily, alarm causing his tone to falter.
The silver boy looked angelic, his expression untouched by the worries of the world. Sora reached out to cup his cheek, moving his head forward.
Just as quickly as he righted the sleeping boy's position, his head fell back to the side.
"Hey, this isn't funny," Sora asserted, pinching his cheek sternly. "Wake up," he instructed.
Something's wrong, he realized, moving his hands to shake Riku's shoulders. "Hey," he called again, increasing the intensity of his motions.
But still, the pale boy didn't rouse.
His lungs felt constricted. Right, he focused, the sensation reminding him. Purposefully, he leaned forward, pressing his ear against Riku's chest. Just barely, he felt shallow tremors with the movement of his ribcage. Shifting, Sora next pressed his ear near the silver boy's pale lips. His eyebrows furrowed when he heard the hushed but labored breaths sustaining the sleeping boy.
Sora pulled back, shaking Riku's arm roughly. "Riku!", he cried. "Come on," he begged. "What's wrong?"
No matter what he tried, the silver boy didn't react. Though he was right next to him, Sora felt alone and hopeless.
"Bringing you here was supposed to make everything better," he muttered, angry at himself.
He was silent for a while, trying to figure out what happened and what to do. "That's it," he realized, suddenly. "Riku and everyone mentioned this to me," he recalled. "I did the same thing, once." A deep sleep.
"You saved me then, didn't you?", he mumbled wistfully.
"You've always been there," Sora told the sleeping boy. "Protecting me."
"I'm so sorry I keep failing to do the same," he sighed.
"How can I reach you?", he wondered. "I wasn't able to master diving," he muttered, quickly losing confidence.
"But I care about you, so I'm going to find a way!", he declared, walking back to the living room.
He found what he was searching for, picking up the lone sketchbook.
Sora's expression was grave as he wrestled with guilt. "I'm sorry, but," he breathed. "I need to understand you, just a little more."
The searching boy winced and opened the book. Inside, he found mostly empty pages with others torn out, tucked and folded. He decided to flip through it first, seeing if anything jumped out. His hand stopped when he happened upon a face.
"This is…" he touched the page, tracing its markings. "Me."
It was a crude drawing, to be sure, but he saw the telltale characteristics of his person reflected there. His spiky hair, lanky frame and a wide, dopey grin.
He quickly flipped to the following page, seeing himself reflected again. Repeating the process, he noted that each incarnation grew in realism. It continued until the end of the book.
"Riku," he breathed, mind at a loss. "Why did you," he paused.
Understand his heart without words, he thought, echoing Kairi's sentiment.
He walked back into the room, sketchbook in tow, sitting at Riku's bedside.
"Think," he told himself. I want to understand you, he declared, closing his eyes to focus.
I thought everything was alright. I told you that you'd always be my best friend.
Were you happy, then, when I said that?, he thought back. Your face. What did you look like?
He focused, seeing Riku's form materialize in front of him: a mirror of that time. His breath caught when he saw the blank expression the silver boy wore. It was more akin to a mask than a face.
I didn't make you happy at all, he realized bitterly.
But why?, he called to the figment in front of him, begging for an answer that would not come.
Sora carried on with his internal monologue. Then that couldn't have been what was bothering you. It was something else.
His thoughts raced through recent conversations, searching for a clue.
What made you so sad?, he forced himself to ponder deeper.
I told you I liked Kairi. What did your face look like?
The fog-like Riku in front of him once again shifted, his eyes widening. Fear?, he wondered.
Why were you afraid?, Sora begged, his eyebrows creasing further.
He shifted focus. Then, when were you happy?, he wondered, thinking over their moments. The apprehensive looks melting to gentle smiles whenever Sora reached out to touch him, the instinctual physical reassurances Riku offered him whenever he was sad or annoyed, the patience the older boy employed whenever a thought needed translating from words to actions. His mind froze on one time in particular, in which Riku pulled him into a long hug.
So you're happy when we touch?, Sora smiled at the revelation, heart thrumming. I like it when you touch me, too, he realized, recounting the details of the interaction.
The pale boy's arms shook the entire time, Sora recalled, as if he was doing something wrong. And yet, his hold seemed desperate and tight.
Why are you so conflicted?, he asked sadly.
He kept thinking, closing his eyes to focus.
You don't want to push me away. You came with me, you tried, so why are you running again?
In the lack of sound and sight, Sora felt only his quickening heartbeat. This always happens when I think about Riku.
Is this worry?, he wondered, puzzled, shifting his mind. What was it again? Kairi…
I can't tell you how you feel, an echo of her voice repeated.
Riku said the same thing, Sora thought, eyebrows furrowed. Maybe something there is a hint, he hoped.
His mind couldn't help but shift back to her confession.
He frowned, forcing himself through more memories. She looked so sad, too. But why?
Sora did his best to concentrate.
Because she thinks I don't return her feelings?, he guessed.
That was when he saw the pattern, and his eyes shot open.
There, he saw the sleeping boy in front of him.
"Riku," he called out, his voice pained by the sudden revelation. "You can-," he began his question, voice hushed.
Sora's eyes traced the details of his sleeping face, doing his best to remove the thoughts he continued to project over any expressions he found there.
He breathed in.
"Yeah," he exhaled, lips curling. "Of course you can."
He set the sketchbook on the nightstand, pulling Riku's hand and placing it over his heart, keeping his own hand over it.
Beneath them, a light began to shine vaguely.
Sora inhaled as the light grew in intensity.
"Home, huh?", he chuckled, remembering Riku's action from days ago as he focused on its lustre.
"I'll be there soon, Riku," he vowed, grip tightening on the hand he could no longer see.
And then he was gone.