[ There's so much more that Robby would say, as long as Mister LaRusso was willing to listen. As if words alone could be enough to convey his remorse, his regret--and then his acceptance, if Mister LaRusso was mad at him, disappointed, then he had every right. And while the apology given speaks otherwise about Mister LaRusso's feelings, it's not like feelings can't be complicated, right? What does he have to apologise in the first place, after all? When he did try to help him, when he kept trying to reach out.
How can you help someone who won't listen? Who'd rather burn everything to the ground, and call it strength.
Feelings are complicated. They're what's too strong, when a hand on Robby turns into a tug, and Robby doesn't think to resist--though he doesn't know what's happening, either--to find himself leaning in. Leaning into what becomes an arm around his shoulders, and his chest tightens; he blinks at the sight of a wall and bed, the outline of Mister LaRusso's body just within the edges of his vision, and they would have been enough to unsettle him. But those words spoken, low and rasped--
No, no. He's not strong. He's not strong at all.
He doesn't feel strong, not the way his body reacts to hear that correct. One of his hands trembles with an indecision, raising slightly, fingers flexing with the idea of moving and doing more, while his throat constricts, and his heart feels raw where it beats. He's been a coward for too long; he's been burning bridges in his hurt. And he doesn't feel very strong, when a couple of words muttered can make him crumble from what they show, more than what they mean.
(Or maybe they do mean what Robby takes from them, when paired with the touch granted: that It's okay, I'm here for you. You haven't lost me. I was always here.)
There's something here that he thought was lost. A man who took a boy into his home, a man who took that boy out into the woods; working together to rebuild a home into a dojo, laying paint on fencing and walls, drinking with legs dangling off from where they sat. It's been lost, the boy hadn't wanted it, and then it was gone--it felt like a piece of the past, too far gone to be found again.
Missed you, says the man, and the boy wishes he never left in the first place.
But he can do better than just wish, and he gives up his reservations, lifts his indecisive hand and wraps it around the other side of Mister LaRusso's neck and presses himself a little more into his embrace, sucks in and exhales a deep breath. ]
I missed you too, Mister LaRusso. I didn't think-- I didn't know if there'd ever be a good time to see you. To apologise.
[ With everything he did--with a family he hurt. Him. Sam, maybe Anthony too. He let him down as well. ]
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How can you help someone who won't listen? Who'd rather burn everything to the ground, and call it strength.
Feelings are complicated. They're what's too strong, when a hand on Robby turns into a tug, and Robby doesn't think to resist--though he doesn't know what's happening, either--to find himself leaning in. Leaning into what becomes an arm around his shoulders, and his chest tightens; he blinks at the sight of a wall and bed, the outline of Mister LaRusso's body just within the edges of his vision, and they would have been enough to unsettle him. But those words spoken, low and rasped--
No, no. He's not strong. He's not strong at all.
He doesn't feel strong, not the way his body reacts to hear that correct. One of his hands trembles with an indecision, raising slightly, fingers flexing with the idea of moving and doing more, while his throat constricts, and his heart feels raw where it beats. He's been a coward for too long; he's been burning bridges in his hurt. And he doesn't feel very strong, when a couple of words muttered can make him crumble from what they show, more than what they mean.
(Or maybe they do mean what Robby takes from them, when paired with the touch granted: that It's okay, I'm here for you. You haven't lost me. I was always here.)
There's something here that he thought was lost. A man who took a boy into his home, a man who took that boy out into the woods; working together to rebuild a home into a dojo, laying paint on fencing and walls, drinking with legs dangling off from where they sat. It's been lost, the boy hadn't wanted it, and then it was gone--it felt like a piece of the past, too far gone to be found again.
Missed you, says the man, and the boy wishes he never left in the first place.
But he can do better than just wish, and he gives up his reservations, lifts his indecisive hand and wraps it around the other side of Mister LaRusso's neck and presses himself a little more into his embrace, sucks in and exhales a deep breath. ]
I missed you too, Mister LaRusso. I didn't think-- I didn't know if there'd ever be a good time to see you. To apologise.
[ With everything he did--with a family he hurt. Him. Sam, maybe Anthony too. He let him down as well. ]