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“.... I’d like to speak with him alone, for a minute.”
“Huh?”
“Riku?”
That’s him, the one that’s not his Sora, then the one that is - but his eyes haven’t left the one that isn’t him.
There’s nurses and doctors, bustling sounds of chatter and technology from other rooms - and the white walls remind him too much of things outside of this world.
That’s all the outside. In here, there’s nothing but the stretching silence, now - but teal depths do not leave his own, hair almost platinum, brows slightly furrowed, lips neutral, almost grimacing.
He knows that look well - but also knows it’s somewhat alien, at least in its intensity.
“.... It’s alright.”
It seems no matter where they go ; there’s always an understanding between they who are the same. Kindred spirits. Same person, different experiences.
There’s even more silence - he can feel Sora’s gaze on his back, cautious and curious respectively - but then the door’s slowly pulling open, a sound almost grating on his ears.
“We’ll be outside if you need us, ‘kay?”
“Right.”
Then they’re alone.
No IV, no beeping machines, nothing but the two of them, sunshine through the window, the occasional tweet of birds in the tree whose branches peek in from the outside world.
“.... You’re dying.”
Not a question, a statement - Riku has to admit his voice sounds stronger than he’d expected, stronger than he feels about it - but then the light in those eyes in front of him dims, like the shooting stars have finally passed.
The meteor shower is over.
“..... That’s right.”
His gut feels heavy, heart thrumming, hands tight by his side.
He hadn’t been expecting that, somehow - for him to be so outright.
They’re so different in this world - this version of him is happy, cheerful, can laugh so easily -- gives out when Sora doesn’t practice enough ( “If you can’t play with your hands, play with your feet.”) ( “You don’t have time to be slacking off!” ), giving good advice, being inspirational ( “You really are free.” “Music is freedom, you know.” ) ---- it’s---- strange.
But despite the difference in universes -- they both play the violin.
Strange, how different realities come together in different ways.
“I’ve always been sick ; ever since I was a kid.”
“.....Does he know?”
“I haven’t told him. The only ones who know are me and my parents.”
The fact he’s able to say all of this so straight-faced breaks his heart.
And he looks so sad ; heart-breakingly, achingly so.
A violin cries tragedy in his inner ear.
“I was thinking of telling him, but.... I think he’s got enough on his plate.”
The tortured pianist -- having lost his mother at a young age, no longer able to hear the notes.
The Sora of this universe has been through his own emotional rollercoaster.
“From what we’ve seen and heard on recordings---- you’ve changed him.”
He’s earned himself a small hum of humour for that, eyes aglitter ; just a spark, just for a moment ---- then it’s gone, stolen by the sky.
“I haven’t done anything. I just gave him a reason to keep playing music. But a violinist who can’t play.... ”
He’s underestimating how much that means to someone---- Riku knows that feeling well.
Bed sheets furl under the other’s fingers ; and his smile, though small, speaks volumes.
A sigh, as piercing as the highest note of a piano.
“I just wish I had more time to play with him.”
To be with him.
“You know how he feels.”
“And he doesn’t have a clue. I’m not going to force that on him. Not when....”
That’s reasonable ; it’s a bit of a conflict.
Spend the rest of your time with the one you love, with them not knowing anything?
Or let them know, and give them all the more to despair about, once you’re gone?
“That song you two played, at the last competition....”
The song between them during the Mark -- they’d both certainly been surprised to hear it. They’d shared a glance upon hearing it on the DVD recording they’d been given, only a few days before.
“Weird, isn’t it? It’s been in my head ever since I was little... but once I started learning how to write music, I was able to make it real. I wanted to play it with him, at least once. He inspired it, after all.”
“....Does it have a name?”
“ ‘Dearly Beloved’ .”