Drake’s words aren’t what hurt—no, Maruki isn’t particularly fragile to being called out. What throws him off, what actually gives him pause, is the way Drake is speaking to him at all.
Like he was actually part of this fight.
Like he was part of the team.
That doesn’t make sense.
Maruki swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers flex against his arm, gripping it unconsciously. “...You’re saying I should’ve trusted you,” he murmurs, tone oddly steady, contemplative. “That I should’ve relied on the others. That I—” He exhales, half a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. His voice lowers, quieter, less directed at Drake and more at himself.
“...That you even wanted me...to?”
It’s not sarcastic. It’s not accusatory. It’s genuine. Surprised.
Because when he was out there—fighting Fatalis, pushing himself past every limit he thought he had—he had done so fully believing he was on his own. That his survival, his presence there, was nothing but an afterthought to them at best, a nuisance at worst.
Drake hates him. That much, Maruki has never questioned. And yet, here he is, spitting venom at him not because-?
Maruki’s lips press together. His eyes flick down, a furrow in his brow, thoughts tangling in ways he hadn’t expected. He doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t try to argue back. Instead, he just mutters, more to himself than anyone, “...Huh.”
1/2
Drake’s words aren’t what hurt—no, Maruki isn’t particularly fragile to being called out. What throws him off, what actually gives him pause, is the way Drake is speaking to him at all.
Like he was actually part of this fight.
Like he was part of the team.
That doesn’t make sense.
Maruki swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers flex against his arm, gripping it unconsciously. “...You’re saying I should’ve trusted you,” he murmurs, tone oddly steady, contemplative. “That I should’ve relied on the others. That I—” He exhales, half a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. His voice lowers, quieter, less directed at Drake and more at himself.
“...That you even wanted me...to?”
It’s not sarcastic. It’s not accusatory. It’s genuine. Surprised.
Because when he was out there—fighting Fatalis, pushing himself past every limit he thought he had—he had done so fully believing he was on his own. That his survival, his presence there, was nothing but an afterthought to them at best, a nuisance at worst.
Drake hates him. That much, Maruki has never questioned. And yet, here he is, spitting venom at him not because-?
Maruki’s lips press together. His eyes flick down, a furrow in his brow, thoughts tangling in ways he hadn’t expected. He doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t try to argue back. Instead, he just mutters, more to himself than anyone, “...Huh.”