[ Robby doesn't hesitate on sitting next to the man. He's honest when he says he's tired--tired of running, from hiding away from the tough subjects. Is he doing that now, by wanting to dismiss and put aside apologies or blame? He doesn't think so; because he knows months of doing that truly didn't get him anywhere, and even the hint of bringing it back up--it makes that fog that haunted him all that time, the anger that he carried around for too long, threaten to emerge. Clinging to his limbs, making his body uncomfortable.
He fought to do anything to ride it, use it so that he'd be free of it. Played Kreese and Silver's games just for a chance to feel anything else, even if it was spite and bitterness.
Robby sits, because he doesn't want to fight anymore.
There's something uncomfortable about the photo, that hasn't lessened since he uncovered it from its wrapping. The faces and mood that have been lost to the time they came from, a kind of innocence that can't be stepped back into. Because Robby remembers that guy next to Mister LaRusso--that student next to his sensei. Wide-eyed, trusting, wanting nothing more than to be someone worth anything, willing to take a few hits to the heart sometimes.
A tiny part of him wouldn't mind being him again, though Robby knows he never can be, doesn't wish it completely. Not when he knows the hurt that follows, and hiding in the past won't bring him any relief.
Maybe this is just what most people feel when they look upon a time and place that held any meaning in their lives, but Robby doesn't get to indulge in it long as Mister LaRusso starts to 'speak'; or as his phone does, and Robby listens to it with a bowed head. Not looking at the photo, but neither at Mister LaRusso, when its not his voice the one verbalising his message. As if doing this will let him concentrate and listen to the words better--and they're worth it, the story that they share. His hands hold loosely together where they sit on his lap, but Robby starts rubbing them some as the message goes on. Not continuously, but idly, playing with his fingers as he tries to imagine a Mister LaRusso that's, truthfully, difficult to see.
Because there's still traces of the man he became to Robby during his hurt, and then there's the parts of him that Mister LaRusso makes him remember, and see. And then Robby knows that he has to connect them both, because neither are wrong: the man with a temper that can be sharp, but a man who kept reaching out, over and over. The man who became his sensei, gave him a home and purpose. The man who could kick him out with a snap of his fingers, the man who let him in so close to his life.
A man he learned to fear for that power he had over him, because he took one too many of those beatings to his chest.
Robby looks at Mister LaRusso once the messages finish. A glance at first, his mind still digesting over the emotion, both of the message and within himself. But he does bring his eyes to rest on the man, his expression tender, his lips pressed together. Slow to speak. ]
...We both messed up, [ he decides--not over meeting each other, not because of what's been shared, but everything after. ] Sometimes, things escalate so much that you don't know how things turned out the way they did. One moment you're doing karate in the back of a garden, and then the next--it's gone. I couldn't see it anymore, that life I had...
[ Because he felt used. He felt disposable.
His hands tighten, his fingernails pressing into his skin. A sharper pain present around the rims of his eyes.
His voice lowers. ]
It didn't exist anymore. And it was hard, unpacking what I did; everything I bottled up, didn't want to deal with. What I did to Miguel... it was easier to bury it. I thought I'd always be a bad guy anyway. Because I got too mad at the wrong time...
[ The wrong kick.
He raises an arm to wipe near an eye with the back of his shirt, sniffs, and takes in a breath to settle his nerves. Presses his hands back together, curling them into one fist. ]
We lost something good, [ is all he can think to say. Without blame, without dwelling into why. Because there's too many reasons why; because it doesn't help with what's already done and gone, won't ever bring back the past.
But maybe, being able to acknowledge the pain and grieve for it is enough--and to do it with someone willing to share their grief with you can mean all the more. ]
no subject
He fought to do anything to ride it, use it so that he'd be free of it. Played Kreese and Silver's games just for a chance to feel anything else, even if it was spite and bitterness.
Robby sits, because he doesn't want to fight anymore.
There's something uncomfortable about the photo, that hasn't lessened since he uncovered it from its wrapping. The faces and mood that have been lost to the time they came from, a kind of innocence that can't be stepped back into. Because Robby remembers that guy next to Mister LaRusso--that student next to his sensei. Wide-eyed, trusting, wanting nothing more than to be someone worth anything, willing to take a few hits to the heart sometimes.
A tiny part of him wouldn't mind being him again, though Robby knows he never can be, doesn't wish it completely. Not when he knows the hurt that follows, and hiding in the past won't bring him any relief.
Maybe this is just what most people feel when they look upon a time and place that held any meaning in their lives, but Robby doesn't get to indulge in it long as Mister LaRusso starts to 'speak'; or as his phone does, and Robby listens to it with a bowed head. Not looking at the photo, but neither at Mister LaRusso, when its not his voice the one verbalising his message. As if doing this will let him concentrate and listen to the words better--and they're worth it, the story that they share. His hands hold loosely together where they sit on his lap, but Robby starts rubbing them some as the message goes on. Not continuously, but idly, playing with his fingers as he tries to imagine a Mister LaRusso that's, truthfully, difficult to see.
Because there's still traces of the man he became to Robby during his hurt, and then there's the parts of him that Mister LaRusso makes him remember, and see. And then Robby knows that he has to connect them both, because neither are wrong: the man with a temper that can be sharp, but a man who kept reaching out, over and over. The man who became his sensei, gave him a home and purpose. The man who could kick him out with a snap of his fingers, the man who let him in so close to his life.
A man he learned to fear for that power he had over him, because he took one too many of those beatings to his chest.
Robby looks at Mister LaRusso once the messages finish. A glance at first, his mind still digesting over the emotion, both of the message and within himself. But he does bring his eyes to rest on the man, his expression tender, his lips pressed together. Slow to speak. ]
...We both messed up, [ he decides--not over meeting each other, not because of what's been shared, but everything after. ] Sometimes, things escalate so much that you don't know how things turned out the way they did. One moment you're doing karate in the back of a garden, and then the next--it's gone. I couldn't see it anymore, that life I had...
[ Because he felt used. He felt disposable.
His hands tighten, his fingernails pressing into his skin. A sharper pain present around the rims of his eyes.
His voice lowers. ]
It didn't exist anymore. And it was hard, unpacking what I did; everything I bottled up, didn't want to deal with. What I did to Miguel... it was easier to bury it. I thought I'd always be a bad guy anyway. Because I got too mad at the wrong time...
[ The wrong kick.
He raises an arm to wipe near an eye with the back of his shirt, sniffs, and takes in a breath to settle his nerves. Presses his hands back together, curling them into one fist. ]
We lost something good, [ is all he can think to say. Without blame, without dwelling into why. Because there's too many reasons why; because it doesn't help with what's already done and gone, won't ever bring back the past.
But maybe, being able to acknowledge the pain and grieve for it is enough--and to do it with someone willing to share their grief with you can mean all the more. ]