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They prepare for battle and in a way it feels comforting, the way routine does. It’s like Riku has been preparing forever, since he was sixteen, fifteen, five, before he was born. He grew into war like an ill-fitting suit: filling in the empty space until he was the right shape for it and unrecognizable to himself.
Riku is 18. He wouldn’t consider himself an adult, but he would say he is a soldier.
He looks at the other Keyblade wielders and finds the same stubborn set of their shoulders, the same hardening of their eyes. They’re too young and too few to be an army, but when has war ever cared about such a thing?
He finishes tying up his shoes and for a moment wishes he had an armor like the one Aqua and Ventus wear. He’s never needed the protection before — correction: has always survived despite its absence — but there’s something about a final battle that makes him long for it.
Aqua meets his eyes and he thinks she understands, though she doesn’t vocalize it. Instead she says, “You look like you’re planning something.”
They all are, but he guesses his scheming is more obvious than most. He smiles awkwardly, shrugging.
“Of course I am. We’re heading into battle.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
He does, and she’s too smart to believe otherwise. He sighs.
“If I tell you to leave Vanitas to me, will you?”
She narrows her eyes, suspicious then calculating as he holds her gaze. “What are you planning, Riku?”
“I have… an idea.” A guess, and a hope. Memories of a throwaway conversation in the dead of the night. If it came to me or Xehanort, who would you choose?
You. There had been no hesitation in his voice but he spoke low, as if afraid to be overheard. Even then he sounded hazy from exhaustion, drowsy from the warmth and comfort he so rarely gets to enjoy. It had taken minutes before he continued, But he would never let me choose.
You don’t need his permission.
Vanitas hadn’t replied then, and they dropped the subject in favor of more entertaining activities. Now Riku hopes that when it comes down to it, Vanitas will make the right choice. He’s not sure he can bear the alternative.
Aqua pats him on the shoulder. She puts a little too much force in it but he’s glad for the touch all the same.
“I’ll give you a chance to do your thing,” she says. “But if he puts anyone else in danger, I’m putting him in the ground.”
That’s fair. He wishes he could tell her, with assurance, that it won’t be necessary.
He says nothing.
The dust-sand-rust of the Keyblade Graveyard sticks to his throat and burns his eyes. Riku grits his teeth and glares in the direction of the black robes standing ominously in rank, apparently unperturbed by the weather. It’s a terrible place to fight in, which is probably why Xehanort chose it, the bastard.
His eyes catch on the familiar silhouette of Vanitas at Xheanort’s right side. He slouches in a dramatic show of carelessness, keyblade propped up on his shoulders. Riku’s heart skips a beat at the sight before starting back up again, twice as fast. He can’t help the warmth that spreads through his chest, barely stops himself from smiling in time.
On the other side of the invisible line, Vanitas seeks him in the same way. His helmet turns until he spots Riku, and he tilts his head sharply, raising two fingers from his keyblade in a discrete greeting.
They stand face to face on opposite sides. Xehanort soliloquies and Sora is outraged, then angry, and Riku doesn’t listen to a word of it. His heart is rushing in his ears, deafening, and he hopes—
He lifts his keyblade on instinct, parries a blow from a black robed figure. Adrenaline sparks through his nerves as muscle memory alone carries him through the fight. A parry, a dodge, an attack that leaves him wide open. He drops to the ground rather than let his enemy get a hit in, kicks his legs up and catches them in the chest. It’s easy to sink into the habit of battle and not think about any of it, grab the back of their robes to throw them into another Xehanort clone as a distraction.
It’s easy until it’s not, until it’s Vanitas nearly taking his head off, eyes burning into Riku without the barrier of his helmet to cover their manic glow. He swears, tries to sweep Vanitas’ feet from under him. Vanitas jumps out of the way, throws a punch that goes wide.
Riku’s heart is still beating wildly from the attempted murder, which he should have come to expect from Vanitas, who’s as likely to kiss him as he is to kick his ass to keep him on his toes. It doesn’t stop him from getting right in his face.
“What are you doing?”
Vanitas snarls, twists it into a grin, and throws Void Gear like a spear. It narrowly misses Riku and goes right through one of Vanitas’ own allies, splattering blood over the ground. The dust drinks it readily even as they collapse.
A jerk of his fingers summon Void Gear back to his hand, still stained with red. Vanitas leans into Riku’s space.
“I’m making a choice,” he hisses, half threat half love confession.
Shock and relief crash over Riku like a tidal wave. Irrational laughter bubbles up in his chest, bursting out in a cackle that sounds mad even to his ears. He can’t put the feeling into words — it’s fear and satisfaction and sheer joy of a gamble paying off. Instead he grabs Vanitas’ hand, shivering at the sensation of Void Gear disappearing under his touch in a burst of shadows, and brings it to his mouth. He presses a kiss to bloody fingers.
“Thank you,” he whispers, like a prayer to Vanitas or something else.
Vanitas grunts, but when he takes back his hand he’s almost gentle.
“We’re in the middle of a battlefield,” he adds as if Riku isn’t aware of the chaos around them. They stand at the eye of the hurricane — he catches an Unversed darting into the fray in the corner of his eyes and thinks this is why. They’re a good distraction, if nothing else. “Let’s get this over with. You can thank me properly later.”
Riku laughs again, softer this time, and summons back his keyblade.
It’s something to look up for after the fight. It’s been a while since he’s had such a thing.