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it’s lonely here, ryo finds himself thinking, more often than not. he’s spent a great deal of time wondering what it is, despite telling himself that it doesn’t matter. what is he missing? why does he feel this way? why does he feel so empty?
he finds himself in a constant struggle between two parts of himself: the part he deems staunchly ryo asuka, and the nagging, human part that won’t leave him alone. the part of himself that is most definitely himself thinks, knows, that emotions are stupid, they serve him no purpose, should be discarded, but it’s getting hard to ignore that emotional part of himself. as he’s grown up, it’s just become harder and harder to understand himself. is it supposed to be like this? he’s sure it’s not, but who is he gonna ask? his coworkers? jenny? himself?
oh.
akira, huh?
one thing that he can’t deny, and that he doesn’t try to because it’s the only thing he understands anymore, is that he thinks about akira more often than he expected to, back all those years ago when he left.
sometimes he wishes he didn’t leave. there was nobody that was quite like akira in this world. nobody that would spend days caring for a cat they both knew would die, nobody that would cry for others like him. he owed that smile his life. he doesn’t know what would have happened if it weren’t for akira that held his hand out that day, held ryo, and told him he was safe without even knowing him. he’d never felt that kind of warmth before. he may never again.
ryo leans back in his chair and sighs. it doesn’t make any sense to him. there are dots, but what was there to connect? where is this melancholy coming from?
back when he was a kid, it didn’t matter. he knew something was missing, and he didn’t care. what was there to care about when everyone was watching cartoons and playing with stuffed animals like there was nothing wrong with the world? all he wanted to do was read and learn about everything he could, but he could never learn why everyone was so desperate to play with each other, to enjoy themselves. he could never understand why akira cried all the time. people get hurt. animals die. that’s just how the world works.
he put his hand over his heart gently. he could feel it beating through his shirt, slow and steady. it reminded him he was still alive, still human, but at the same time, he felt like there was nothing there. he knows from the things that people say around him, as if he can’t hear, that they think there isn’t. it almost hurts his feelings. should something be there? did he want something to be there?
he knows he needs to stop wondering. it doesn’t make sense, but he doesn’t need it to make sense. it’s futile and it’s useless. but that annoying human part keeps coming back, keeps nagging, keeps asking what’s wrong? what is it that you’re missing? what is it that you want? why is it asking? he doesn’t know.
almost absentmindedly, ryo keeps tapping through the pictures of him and akira as kids on his laptop. it’s almost second nature to him at this point. this is the only thing he has of akira, and even if he doesn’t know why, it soothes him. it feels right. the only thing that feels right is akira fudo.
he yearns to see that smile, hear that laugh, even see those tears if they came, and he knew they would. he wants to see akira, the most human human that he’s ever seen. maybe seeing akira would make it all make sense.
he knows akira has grown up, just as ryo has, and he wonders how much he’s changed. has he gotten taller? has his voice gotten deeper? has he stopped crying?
no, of course not, ryo thinks to himself. that’s what made akira truly himself. truly human.
maybe that’s the part ryo lacking. maybe it’s humanity. that would explain why he’d never cared about anyone else, only himself and his own interests. the one exception to every rule ryo thought he had is akira.
he wonders what he would feel like now if he had never met akira in the first place. is it more sad that parallel lines never meet, or is it more sad that perpendicular lines meet, but grow forever more distant?
it feels like they’re perpendicular lines. they crashed into each other head first at a million miles an hour, but like their meeting, their time together was abrupt, yet electric. after ryo was taken away, they kept going, drifting further and further apart by the day. it seemed like they’d never cross again.
that’s bullshit, ryo thinks. why do there only have to be two options? ryo has spent his whole life forging a path nobody had ever seen be taken, why should this be any different?
“jenny!” he yells firmly. “book me a flight to japan. we leave tomorrow morning.”
he gets up from his chair, tossing his coat on.
if he can’t find his heart himself, he’s sure he’ll find it with akira.
maybe akira has it.