[ He's not walking towards the Lighthouse - there would eventually be a fence, and crossing it would mean certain and gruesome death - he'd be walking along the shore and then, from there, to the side to ascend a little hill eventually. Where there are a couple of graves. Down here, where Riku walks, there used to be a boathouse.
There are traces of it here and there. Fragments of splintered wood, the occasional plank, half-submerged in sand, rotting slowly.
His elbow is grabbed and Riku doesn't look back.
He doesn't dare. Most of Riku's life he's learned to take the feelings he's judged embarrassing and buried them down deep. He scoffs. He laughs. He challenges.
He doesn't cry, even if once he took hold of a special door, and with red-rimmed eyes told the boy on the other side to take care of her, their precious friend from beyond the borders of their tiny little world.
Not a single time in his whole life has he let his friends see, he isn't about to extend that to a stranger carrying the memories of a long-dead friend, either. ]
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There are traces of it here and there. Fragments of splintered wood, the occasional plank, half-submerged in sand, rotting slowly.
His elbow is grabbed and Riku doesn't look back.
He doesn't dare. Most of Riku's life he's learned to take the feelings he's judged embarrassing and buried them down deep. He scoffs. He laughs. He challenges.
He doesn't cry, even if once he took hold of a special door, and with red-rimmed eyes told the boy on the other side to take care of her, their precious friend from beyond the borders of their tiny little world.
Not a single time in his whole life has he let his friends see, he isn't about to extend that to a stranger carrying the memories of a long-dead friend, either. ]
What.