Roxas knows hes not Sora, but that doesnt stop him from loving Riku. He doesnt care that it hurts, or that he constantly feels like hes being used, because it makes Riku happy, and Rikus happiness is what matters most to him. It doesnt matter how bad he feels at the end of the day, how empty his chest feels.
Riku says he loves Roxas, but Roxas knows that its only temporary. Hes only temporary, because the moment Sora comes back is the moment he disappears and he becomes nothing, not even a memory.
Roxas knows that Riku only loves him because Sora is not around, and it stings. He knows that Rikus kisses and I love yous arent meant for him, but pretending they are makes it better sometimes. Pretending takes the sting away, if only for a while.
Roxas knows, as he watches from inside his Somebody, sees the smile on Rikus face upon Soras return, that he was, and always will be, a replacement.
Smoke and Mirrors
There is no doubt in Rikus mind that no matter where he goes, no matter what he does, Roxas is going to be faster. Somehow hell slip away as though hes never been there, a wisp of something that doesnt quite exist slipping through his fingers like water. He cant catch him, he cant hold onto him, he cant complete his objective.
But in spite of that he plunges forward, unsure where the dark corridor will take him but knowing the fact that it lingers is open invitation. Roxas enjoys this game that they play, never tiring of it, no matter how many times theyve played it out.
No matter how many times the nobody wins.
And he plays this game because there is nothing else for him, barreling down the void path between one world and another, footfalls the lone resonance within this dead space aside from the harsh sound of his rushing breaths, the thrill of his heart as he delves onward. He doesnt know why his heart always races, but he tells
Heart in a Box
A heart in a box, how convenient.
Sable clad hands gripped the container fiercely, as though dropping it would shatter the world around. It was heaver than it had first appeared, bearing down upon his palms and fingers in some attempt to escape, to fall to the bleached white sands and escape his hold. The small dark box was entirely still, a heavy lock set upon its face as a rhythmic pulse sounded from within, its heavy timbre speaking of what it contained.
He was unimpressed by the ominous appearance, the chestha, a chest with a heart inside of itnothing more than an object in his hold, nothing more than a lifeless thing within which something throbbed in sorrow and betrayal.
Yes, he knew the story of this box. It had been his mission to investigate it, in fact. Gloved hands turned the object about casually, as though something so precious was not contained within, a slow grin coming to his face. It was no innocent joviality, no cheer that lit his face but a dark humor ent