It takes Robby a while to find out. He wasn't immediately interested in the new open district, but a lack of anything better to do drew him there, and the gossip of the bank led him that way in particular. Items belonging to people, doors shutting behind them--but where others had been compelled to speak, Robby felt a tugging at his heart from the photo he found, his mouth only opened to gape at it. An image that confused him, for the faces and when it was taken--because the boy with the bobbed cut hair looked so unfamiliar, and the arm around his shoulders puzzled him.
Until it hit him, like none of the ghosts of this city had so far been able to affect him. A memory that belonged to another Robby Keene than him, long gone, unreachable; a time locked by the burnt bridge and closed dojos.
He assumes it must be his item, like others were receiving; until a bump-in with another person reveals differently, offers him another hit he hadn't seen coming. He's here--has been this entire time, but Robby's never seen him. How? Why not? How long? Searching the contacts on the phone helps him find evidence, but his texts go unresponded to, which leaves Robby searching. He could wait. He doesn't want to wait.
He looks everywhere his feet will take him, the phone in his pocket on vibrate and the wrapped photo and its frame in clutched by his stomach to make sure it won't fall as easily out of his hand.
It's a stupid fucking search. The city's empty, but the city's big, even without the added district to give more places to look. Robby doesn't want to think about it initially, asking people along the way if they've seen the man in the photo, then continuing on. But the high of this information starts to dwindle, he thinks there's nothing better he can do than to wait for a response. It's the reasonable option that makes his mind hazy, makes him look at the covered paper with his name written in a hand that isn't his.
His fingers tremble. A part of him wonders if they're all going crazy, imagining people there that aren't, and what he would do anyway? If Mister LaRusso would want to see him, where he should even begin with that conversation.
And Robby doesn't have an answer by the time he sees a figure. A frame of a body hunched by one of the stone gravestones, one that doesn't stand out in one second--the other, freezes Robby in both movement and breath.
(There's a wetness that's been building in the back of his throat, behind his eyes; and it's the idea of having a piece of home that compels Robby maybe more than the man himself. There's reasons for him to stay away, there's a chasm of disappointment he willingly made; but he's selfish, he wants what he doesn't deserve, and he's willing to push down all those complicated emotions, like they don't matter, for a chance to not feel so alone.
So he tells himself. As if seeing Mister LaRusso doesn't scare him, as if what Robby did to him and everyone isn't what freezes him, makes him stop.)
His throat doesn't want to work, despite the lips that twitch; seconds feel like minutes as indecision works to chain Robby in place, or even to pull him away. But despite it all, despite the fog in his head and the drumming of his heartbeat: ]
Mister LaRusso? --Mister LaRusso!
[ He calls out, and starts stumbling forward as he gets his feet to work. ]
no subject
It takes Robby a while to find out. He wasn't immediately interested in the new open district, but a lack of anything better to do drew him there, and the gossip of the bank led him that way in particular. Items belonging to people, doors shutting behind them--but where others had been compelled to speak, Robby felt a tugging at his heart from the photo he found, his mouth only opened to gape at it. An image that confused him, for the faces and when it was taken--because the boy with the bobbed cut hair looked so unfamiliar, and the arm around his shoulders puzzled him.
Until it hit him, like none of the ghosts of this city had so far been able to affect him. A memory that belonged to another Robby Keene than him, long gone, unreachable; a time locked by the burnt bridge and closed dojos.
He assumes it must be his item, like others were receiving; until a bump-in with another person reveals differently, offers him another hit he hadn't seen coming. He's here--has been this entire time, but Robby's never seen him. How? Why not? How long? Searching the contacts on the phone helps him find evidence, but his texts go unresponded to, which leaves Robby searching. He could wait. He doesn't want to wait.
He looks everywhere his feet will take him, the phone in his pocket on vibrate and the wrapped photo and its frame in clutched by his stomach to make sure it won't fall as easily out of his hand.
It's a stupid fucking search. The city's empty, but the city's big, even without the added district to give more places to look. Robby doesn't want to think about it initially, asking people along the way if they've seen the man in the photo, then continuing on. But the high of this information starts to dwindle, he thinks there's nothing better he can do than to wait for a response. It's the reasonable option that makes his mind hazy, makes him look at the covered paper with his name written in a hand that isn't his.
His fingers tremble. A part of him wonders if they're all going crazy, imagining people there that aren't, and what he would do anyway? If Mister LaRusso would want to see him, where he should even begin with that conversation.
And Robby doesn't have an answer by the time he sees a figure. A frame of a body hunched by one of the stone gravestones, one that doesn't stand out in one second--the other, freezes Robby in both movement and breath.
(There's a wetness that's been building in the back of his throat, behind his eyes; and it's the idea of having a piece of home that compels Robby maybe more than the man himself. There's reasons for him to stay away, there's a chasm of disappointment he willingly made; but he's selfish, he wants what he doesn't deserve, and he's willing to push down all those complicated emotions, like they don't matter, for a chance to not feel so alone.
So he tells himself. As if seeing Mister LaRusso doesn't scare him, as if what Robby did to him and everyone isn't what freezes him, makes him stop.)
His throat doesn't want to work, despite the lips that twitch; seconds feel like minutes as indecision works to chain Robby in place, or even to pull him away. But despite it all, despite the fog in his head and the drumming of his heartbeat: ]
Mister LaRusso? --Mister LaRusso!
[ He calls out, and starts stumbling forward as he gets his feet to work. ]