proof I could protect you

He sat down in a chair beside the bed, tilted at an angle, where he could’ve laid his hand on the pillow in comfort. He bent down instead to pick up a stack of books one by one, running his fingers over yellowed pages. They were stories of adventures, of magic, of impossible loves. He felt the rough edge of the hardback cover in his calloused palm, an uncomfortable rasp of texture on skin, and brought one book to his chest. 

He closed his eyes to remember, just briefly, what he might’ve seen as he read.

And, with the weight of the world broken apart, he set the books one by one on the smooth bedspread.

Before, he might’ve stood as he cleaned. Restless, too much youthful energy. Now, it took all he had to gather what had accumulated around Riku’s chair. That’s what they all called it. Riku’s chair. 

There were knick knacks of forgotten childhood memories, sheafs of paper that were illegible to him now. He found a deck of cards under the bed, one that made his throat close because they had remained untouched for too long now.

His hand bumped into the soft fur of a stuffed animal, clumsily sew to try and look its best like a dream, and Riku bit back hard on his teeth, hands shaking as he thumbed over unseeing eyes and dug his fingers in, wondering if those dreams were still around.

All of these he set on the bed, then one by one he replaced them where they belonged in the room. The bookshelf crammed with more memories than bound pages, the dresser overflowing with sentimentality. The cards he shoved into the back of a drawer. The knick knacks, he peppered window sills with. He gathered the incomplete remains of sea shell wind chimes, strings sliding through fragile color, a gift, and that one struck him hard, made the storm swell in his throat, made breathing impossible as he struggled to not crush the project in his hands.

He wondered if he should give it to them. Wondered if he should keep it himself.

Someone else had made the bed, he didn’t know when. He set to remaking it, hands pulling all the covers off unnecessarily. They were pristine, bleached, and he bunched them in his arms and kneeled down to bury his face in them, where nothing remained. He wondered if maybe it had been intentional, a scent washed away where Riku couldn’t wallow.

It took longer than necessary to put the room back to order. The very last task was moving the chair.

Riku’s chair.

It had been filched from the dining room table, and no one had ever commented about the way one was short. They all knew where it had been. Riku hadn’t had dinner at that table in ages. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had, now. Maybe when the cards had lasted been played.

What was funny was, before it was Riku’s chair, it had been his mother’s. She’d had a hobby of wood carving, one she’d passed down before her son had grown too impatient for the indoors. Countless mismatched ornaments and trinkets sprinkled this house and Riku’s. The ones he carved still stood proud in his room, and the hobby had trickled down into other projects, like the seashell wind chimes.

Riku moved the chair back to its proper place, taking a moment’s break at the empty table, and then climbed the wooden creaking steps back up to his room. The floorboards groaned under his weight, and the wheelchair beside the staircase was covered in dust.

His room was the only pristine and lived in place, now. Riku reminded himself to clean the rest of it, if only so he wouldn’t get too sad. He opened the windows, sighing as a breeze finally flowed in and teased at curtains. In the distance, the oceans familiar waves beckoned.

Riku laid back down in the middle of a made bed.