Chapter Text
It was quiet.
Much too quiet.
No clacking of students' or employees' footsteps seeping in from underneath the door, nor wild Pokémon stomping amidst rain that threatened to pierce the crooked nylon tent.
Be it his room in Rose Tower—which, he supposed, he’d never see again—or this… shabby cottage, his first act of consciousness remained the same. He held his wrist to his face for a few seconds, the gold gradually slipping down to his hand.
Tick, tick.
6:05.
Tick, tick.
6:06.
Although, it wasn’t as if the specific time mattered, any hour was far too late, as far as he was concerned.
As far as Chairman Rose was concerned…
He groaned and nearly ripped the blanket off himself, had it not been for a sudden recollection.
“Now, tomorrow is Saturday. I'd like you to—”
“Yes, of course, Ms. Opal, I will take advantage of the stadium’s shorter hours and get as much training done as possible, considering your duties and occupation with the… production… started this… week…”
He could still picture the old lady’s raised eyebrow. "Goodness no, increasing one's workload on a weekend is quite unnecessary, wouldn't you say?"
He'd wanted to shake his head, but refrained from doing so, lest he be incorrect once more.
"One of the most important skills one could learn is when to rest. No one—especially not Gym Leaders—can perform at their best when they are exhausted. I do hope you'll come to understand this, even when I'm no longer over your shoulder everyday nagging you about it."
For a reason unbeknownst to him, he'd frozen at her words, uneasiness creeping into his senses.
And so, he could only sit up in bed, covers still wrapping his lap, as he continued to puzzle over the conversation. If the old Swoobat insisted on the absurd Fairy-type bootcamp, what would she care if he decided to efficiently get it over with? He’d never slept in or slacked off for even a day at Rose Tower or the Trainer’s School, why start now? Wasn't taking initiative expected of a protégé an apprentice? All the time he wasted— was wasting, with every second, simply pretending to obey the elderly Gym Leader's vague curfew. Was this another test, whether he could follow instructions or not? He’d think himself above it were it not for the incident a week ago.
It was ironic, really. It had been a desert in which he'd felt hail. Chairman Rose’s words, his disappointment , pierced him with frigid ice. The same man who had handed him pockets of sunshine now cast him from the light.
He leaned back against the bed's headboard with a sigh, his left hand brushing against an object he'd wanted to forget was there. The room lacked a mirror or many reflective surfaces (with the abundance of wooden furniture scattered about the space, he was practically sleeping in a tree), but he didn't require any to see his face flush. As if he hadn't been humiliated enough.
He took the object in his hands, pressing his thumbs into its stuffed flesh and furrowing his brow as he examined the thoughtful knitwork. Considering the Pokémon, it could have easily been a carbon copy of a Poké Doll, yet he somehow knew its creators would have never allowed it to be. Why else would the old Swoobat—who at the time, he supposed, was younger but still just as loony—journey to the depths of the Glimwood Tangle in search of a Swirlix, and why would her mother spend hours knitting the threads the Pokémon produced? All that trouble, only for the thing to be used as a background prop in that year's production of The Tornadus, in which the young soon-to-be Gym Leader had played-
Why had he remembered such inconsequential details?
He brought the plush closer to his face and scrutinized it further. Its delicate yarn and worn color mockingly returned the scrutiny, taunting him with its whimsical nature. He’d lost his chance to indulge in such childish pleasures long ago, and now, he was nothing more than a teenager gripping a Clefairy plush harder than he wanted to admit. A Clefairy plush he’d deemed an ultimately useless product of time and effort.
But although the frivolous plaything may have been, he didn’t have to be.
He launched himself off the mattress, shoving the plush behind the linen curtains and atop the windowsill as he made his way to the desk. Out of sight, out of mind, he supposed. Though, if Chairman Rose followed the same philosophy, he didn’t even want to consider how far he must have been from his thoughts.
He made his way to the desk beside the window, sliding into what the old lady called a desk chair. To him, it seemed more of a compact sofa. He wondered how much work he could do on the seat as he recalled how often he’d doze off in the far less cushy seats of Rose Tower or his school dorm room.
Could this be the old lady testing him once more, measuring his endurance or willpower or whatever other quality of his supposed “pink?” He had to be prepared for anything, just as he was when acquiring Wishing Stars. He was still acquiring Wishing Stars, as far as he was concerned.
With his mind on the subject, he shifted his attention to the stack of documents littering his desk. Utterly unacceptable, that such a cluttered work area belonged to the Chairman’s elite challenger ( former challenger, technically, though the word sickened him). As he sifted through loose sheets and hardcovers, a repulsive thin paperback fell under his scrutiny. A pathetic attempt to appeal to youth, with its blinding color palette, ample unorganized lines of text, and glitzy models. Perhaps other Galarian teenagers recognized the celebrities, in which case, the magazine may have only been a pathetic attempt to appeal to him . It was exactly the shallow rubbish he’d have long tossed in the bin, and the desire to do so had not vanished.
In fact, its only redeeming quality lay on the second page, in a single photo. A shot from the shoulder-up of an unfamiliar teenage star donning a pair of luxury eyeglasses. The spectacles were perched at the tip of the model’s nose and featured a thin, bejewelled metallic frame. He supposed the focal point of the image was meant to be the sparkling accessory framing their eyes. However, his eyes—now and before, when he’d first picked up the magazine—had focused elsewhere. Instead of the item framing the model’s eyes, he’d fixated on what was framing their face.
Curled, fluffy side-swept locks cascaded down past their left ear and down their shoulders. Short lilac streaks lay in their beige hair, the inner dye peeking out with a purple hue from behind their neck and shoulders.
He’d been skimming through the magazine out of boredom as he waited for the old lady to get ready on his second morning in Ballonlea. If he knew the way, he’d have already been at the stadium, but even then he was sure she would have chastised him for his lack of manners. However long he was staring at the photo had been long enough for the old lady to not only finish her morning routine but also notice his concentration and remark, " My, what a lovely hairdo. Do let me know if you wish to experiment with yours, hm? We could achieve something similar, though not exact.”
He'd paused for much too long before his reply, "My appearance requires no changes. I was simply bored, is all."
She'd smiled—the knowing smile he'd begun to recognize and resent—as she dropped the matter and began to depart for the stadium.
Always as cryptic as she was perceptive. Frustratingly so.
She'd urged him to keep the magazine, the sole reason it had made its way to his desk. He'd debated cutting the photo out and doing away with the rest of it, but he supposed he'd defaced enough in his life.
He raised his hand to brush a tuft of hair aside. Contrary to its light platinum blond, it weighed on his head.
"Good morning, Chairman. I hope I'm not interrupting."
“It’s quite alright… er…”
The man's trailing pause had left a strange, still silence. Like the calm before a storm.
“What was your name again?”
And when the silence had been broken, in its shattered debris stood the boy, frozen in place as if a pang of ice had struck him. Little did he know the inquiry would be the first of many in the coming years.
“It’s… it’s Bede, sir.”
“Ah, that’s right. Bede. My, I couldn't recognize you, though I suppose that’s only due to…” His eyes had seemed to fall to the platinum blond curls behind the boy’s shoulders. " I must still carry the image of that young child I found all those years ago."
The image of him back then, the Chairman's visit. That had occurred after that one night spent staring into the orphanage's cracked mirror, nearly suffocated by the confinement of the musty lavatory. It had been tedious to gather every strand from the floor, but at the time it seemed worth it if it meant his scalp wouldn't sting during every confrontation with a peer or the orphanage head.
Now , it was due for another haircut soon if anything, especially if he could return to the Chairman.
"Well, uh…"
"Time waits for no one, my boy. What is it?"
"I’ll try my very best to help you…”
Though, he'd need Wishing Stars for that.
"... in any way I can."
Which included what he'd done on the evening of that conversation, years ago—hunched over the marble sink of his bathroom in Rose Tower, holding a pair of scissors to his head.
"Very good, I ask you to continue your efforts. And I do hope we aren’t such strangers next time we cross paths, hm?
"I'll do my best to remember.”
This was exactly why he couldn't simply "experiment" with it.
He slid the magazine aside as he continued to hastily organize his desk. Cover by cover, two piles of books soon formed at a corner. At the base of one lay Glamourous Galarian Get-Ups for Teens . At the other, Professor Magnolia’s Guide to Power Spots. He’d need to return most of the documents to the library by the end of the month, but it was better than handling the old lady's dusty, aged, fragile books.
A wide bookmark lay in the final book he had to sort. Shining golden corners and engravings—illustrations of tiny triangular creatures, snowflakes, and mirror shards—gleamed against its royal blue leather cover. He could have sworn he hadn’t checked this book out of the library—only gazed upon its spine on the old lady’s shelves for longer than he’d admit. But it had somehow landed on his desk. And he’d somehow made it halfway through.
He shook his head. He’d wasted a ridiculous amount of time on it. Time he could have spent researching Wishing Stars, or recording what must have been the tenth voicemail in Oleana's inbox because Mr. Rose's never had room, or anything else that would have made him useful.
He ripped out the “bookmark” he’d placed in it from between the pages. It happened to be the League Card of a certain Champion's brother, which he'd received before utterly trouncing the boy in a battle.
He nearly snickered. For someone related to the Champion, he barely put up a fight. That battle had perhaps been one of the Chairman’s protégé’s Bede’s his most flawless victories. He’d defeated seniors at the academy when he’d only capped off his second year, he’d won the third Gym Badge from the “first real roadblock in the Gym Challenge,” and yet, that was the only battle he thought would get him somewhere.
He'd smiled then, after besting him. An assured—and perhaps even borderline condescending—smirk down at the loser. He’d been generous enough to give the boy honest advice so he would not smear the Champion’s name further, similar advice given to him by Oleana and various teachers at the Trainers School that he had harnessed to uphold the Chairman’s reputation.
But Mr. Rose barely acknowledged it, barely acknowledged… him. Instead, such attention fell on the one person who’d bested him. If only he could have been better than Gloria in the mines, or atop the mural. Maybe then he could have been the one dining with Mr. Rose in Hulbury. Maybe then the man would have given him more than just a few words about healthy competition, as if he hadn’t challenged the season’s star player and won.
Maybe then he could have been the star player in the Chairman's eyes.
His eyes dropped to the dark azure tome in his hands, now free of the makeshift bookmark. As if he had never read it. As if he had never even touched it.
He swiftly but carefully discarded it into one of the piles, exchanging it for a document at the top of the other.
His eyes scanned the words: details of the stones’ properties, usage throughout history, and most common locations. This should have been like any other studying session, he should have had notes to write down.
But there was nothing new to him.
His vision ran across the page, desperately searching for somewhere he hadn't been, something he hadn't tried yet.
The Wild Area? He'd explored every nook and cranny when he could have been ahead in the Gym Challenge.
Mines? He frequented them.
Historical sites? What else would that Arceus-forsaken mural be?
Simply wishing, with his whole heart? He'd done plenty of that in his life.
He could do more. He could find more.
He had to.
With a growing tightness in his chest, he extended a shaking hand towards the Clefairy plush lying just behind the curtains. He knew it was there, he knew it was right there . He could grab it, hold tight to what he never had, press it to his chest in an attempt to fill the void in his heart, but…
In a couple swift motions, he slid the curtains aside with one hand and pushed the window open with the other. The Clefairy remained concealed.
As it should, he couldn't help thinking.
The chilly October air rustled the leaves of towering oak trees and passed through him, carrying the distant scent of petrichor. He tried to suppress a shiver but still trembled as he took in the still dawn before him, his slow, deep breaths serving as the only sound.
It was quiet.
That is, until he heard the wind chimes in the distance.
He glanced around but couldn’t spot where she’d placed them, or what they even looked like, only now realising how unfamiliar he truly was with the cottage.
What he was familiar with, though it had been slipping from him as of late, was the soft brightness peeking from behind tree leaves, rising with the day. Its gentle rays painted the scene before him in a radiant flaxen, the moon from the previous night shining brighter than usual in disobedience, as if it emitted its own light independent of the sun's rays.
The light landed particularly nicely on the two potted pink carnations sitting atop the window bar. Small glimmers were sprinkled throughout their petals; raindrops from last night, he realized. Why were those plants there again? Ah, right.
“What are those?”
“I suppose they simply remind me of you.”
And he’d despised them for how fragile, how bright, how pink they were, but once upon a time they were his favorite color. He barely entertained the notion that they might still be.
He continued to gaze at the scene before him, eyes refusing to focus on anything in particular. No distinguishable thoughts crossed his mind, either. It was a strange state of being, one he hadn't felt before.
Then came another sensation he seldom experienced. Warmth spilled down his face, drops dampening the soil of the potted carnations on the bar below him. His deep breaths transformed into something much sharper, his gaze lowered as he wrapped his arms around his own shaking figure. For once, his mind wasn't a blizzard of thoughts, rather his heart heaved a different ice shard to the surface with each convulsive gasp.
His final embrace as the world collapsed around him, onto him. The embrace that slowly transformed from an intimate warmth to a stone-hard cold. And those hands that had held him, stroked his hair when he was distressed, now peeked out from below a pile of concrete. He had no clue just what that had meant but he still wept. Lay there and wept. Because he'd never seen them so limp, so lifeless, so pale. Because he was only four and didn't know what else he could do…
Why had his parents lost their lives when he so needed them in his?
"...do you require anything further?"
"Not really, but… are you sure these are all the children? We could've sworn…"
"Yes, I assure you, you've met with every child I have in my care."
Any further discussion was muffled by his rising heartbeat. Would the orphanage head bother doling out due punishment for allowing himself to be seen by the couple? He wouldn't put it past her. With his back pressed against the unfinished wooden bookshelf, he forced himself to regain his concentration on the book in his lap. He made his best attempts to quiet his frantic breathing and suppress the discomfort of his numb crossed legs on the cold concrete, shooing away nagging thoughts of what would happen once the front door shut. Instead, he sought distraction, continuing to read of Gerda's journey to rescue Kai from the confines of the Froslass-like Snorunt Queen, and the spell of apathy cast on him by the glass shards piercing his eye and heart.
And then the prince got out of his bed and gave it up to Gerda,—he could not do more; and she lay down. She folded her little hands, and thought, "How good everybody is to me, men and Pokémon too;" then she closed her eyes and fell into a sweet sleep.
Amongst all he had read of the tale throughout the couple's visit—each speaking rose and singing creature—such kindness, such goodness was what he had difficulty making sense of.
He heard the front door click shut.
Why did the orphanage head hate him?
"Of course he would deliver. I expected no less. Bede, my boy! Splendid work yesterday."
The Chairman had remembered his name. Whether it was due to his curls bouncing against his skull rather than his neck and shoulders, or the two-digit amount of Wishing Stars he'd gathered, he wasn't sure.
The boy tugged on the collar of his bright orange blazer. It had been one week of summer break—one week since that conversation with the Chairman—and he supposed keeping it on would assist his sponsor. "Thank you, Chairman. I tried my be-" He cleared his throat- "It never once crossed my mind to settle for less.
"There's a good lad. Say, I've got a free hour later this evening. Why don't you meet me at the banquet hall for a meal, just like old times. I've got an opportunity for the Gym Challenge I think you'll quite like."
His face lit up as he nodded successively. "Yes, of course, Chairman. Thank you."
The next time they met, he'd bore empty bags.
The Chairman had forgotten his name once again.
And now, standing at that window, vision blurred with chilling air running over him, he could have sworn he saw a child looking up at him through what could only be a trick of the forest’s fairies. Shining with the grace of the sun, shrinking in on themselves with eyes too innocent for the world. Short hair or long, clad in tattered polyester or sleek rayon, he couldn't tell.
And the child asked,
"Why did they throw me away?"
"Why don't they love me?"
"Why do they always leave?"
He knew the answers to each question, fearfully withholding them. But his whole life, it had been apparent. He knew. The child knew.
He simply wasn’t enough. Never quiet, never behaved, never useful, never able to hold on to a parent of any kind because he had never been deserving of it, had never earned it.
And so they left and left and left and—
Would Ms. Opal leave too?
The very notion terrified him, he couldn't go through it again, couldn't blindly believe he'd found what he'd been searching for all his life, only to have it ripped from him.
Bede wasn’t sure how long he’d spent at that windowsill, standing in the sporadic final drops of his anguish. He didn't even remember the moment he'd picked up the Clefairy plush, but he somehow found himself gently cradling it in his arms.
Eventually, his breathing steadied with each deep inhale and slow exhale. His mind calmed as his body did, settling into cold comfort. For the first time since the wave of emotion came over him, he raised his head to the sky. The sun's steady, soft beams shone through leaves and began to dry the damp streaks on his face.
He flinched as a drop from last night's rain pooling on the roof above splashed onto his nose. It pulled him back to the present moment as he began to ponder exactly what had just happened. Whatever it was, better it happened in his solitude during the early hours of the morning as opposed to atop the mural's stairs, or at the end of Hammerlocke Stadium's drawbridge.
A bright blue flashed behind him.
It still wasn't time.
He whipped around to see his trembling Hattrem; the only family he’d had for most of his life, and time and time again he had hurt her.
Typical.
Arceus, he'd failed immensely if his emotions were able to breach her Great Ball. The capsule's tailor-made environment for the Hatenna evolution line—essentially a soundproof room, but for emotions—was the only thing he remembered from his Poké Ball design class, aside from the leeches he kept as “friends” only because they seemed to believe the Chairman was his father. He’d wanted so desperately to believe it, too.
“Ah, I… I'm sorry, Hattrem, I'm not sure what happened." He sucked in a shaky breath and climbed onto his bed to create as much distance as he could between them.
With a shaking hand, he retrieved Hattrem's Great Ball from underneath his pillow (a childish habit, he would admit) and clicked its center, absorbing the Pokémon in that same glowing blue. "I apologize. I assure you, I won't disturb you in your ball again."
But he knew, from spending the last seven years of his life with her, that it was never that easy.
With another flash of blue, the Great Ball slipped from his hand as Hattrem reappeared, already trudging towards the bed.
He bundled the soft cotton fabric in a fist, speaking through grit teeth. "Hattrem, go away."
Silence, save for the Pokémon's hushed quivering breaths.
"Don't be foolish. We both know what will happen, and we both know what it will do to you." A subconscious squeeze of the knit plush, though the delicate fluff prevented him from pressing too hard.
The ball rolled onto her path, prompting a brief pause as she slowly reached for it, limbs weighed down by fatigue. In one snappy motion, she slapped the capsule, sending it ricocheting off the side wall and rolling underneath his desk.
She was always so stubborn.
She continued her trek, practically dragging her feet as she made her way atop the mattress.
Bede kicked at the bed, pressing his back into the headboard. The situation was much too unsafe for her, and she knew that, but she continued to press on for a reason unknown to him. The gusts in his mind kicked up once more; She was only hurting herself for his sake, and he was making it worse. Why was she still approaching? He could see the pain in her expression grow, he didn't deserve this.
In a last ditch effort, he raised his voice. “Leave me alone, you useless—”
Hattrem threw herself at him, and he truly wished she did so to pummel him. That would have been a better outcome than what she was putting herself through now.
But no, it was a soft, gentle embrace. One that settled the whipping, deafening winds that had begun brewing inside his skull, for just a moment.
Still, a lingering gale carried that notion.
He didn’t deserve this.
"Th-Thank you, Hat, truly." He fashioned a small, weary smile before sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I've no idea what's come over me this morning. Ms. Opal cannot see me like thi—"
It was only three gentle raps on the wooden door, but it was enough to jolt him to attention.
Bede drew a breath, slowly stepping off his bed and to the door, caring to maintain a fairly neutral and deceitfully tired expression. He cautiously twisted the doorknob, opening as small a gap as he could. "Yes?"
He was met with the elderly Gym Leader's wrinkled smile and a wave of an appetizing scent rushing in from behind her. "Bede. Good morning, child."
"Good morning," he replied with a slight bow.
"Would you like to join me for breakfast?" she asked.
It seemed impolite to reject the offer. And if she purposefully sought him out at this hour, perhaps if he simply agreed she wouldn't take time to ponder how long he'd been awake.
"Very well." He nodded before turning around to face Hattrem. "However, you need more rest."
…Without my emotions disturbing you, was his unspoken addition.
Hattrem hesitated, then seemed to settle as she caught a glimpse of the old lady in the doorway, falling back on the mattress with a soft smile.
Releasing a quiet sigh of relief, Bede walked through the doorway to join the old woman, shutting it slowly.
"You need not worry about Hattrem when she wakes. I've got a bowl of Kelpsy berries waiting for her," she reassured him.
He found himself pausing once again, though he quickly recovered as he offered his hand to assist her in descending the stairs.
Once they’d reached the dining room, he scanned the space for a hint of what Ms. Opal had been doing earlier that morning. Judging by the stacks of bowls, spatulas, spoons, and measuring cups in the sink, she had been at whatever it was for quite some time. "Must learn to rest" his arse.
He approached the sink, rolling up his sleeves and grabbing a sponge. He was just about to reach for the dish soap when he sensed a familiar presence behind him. Well, at the very least she hadn’t curled her talons around his shoulder as she did in Hammerlocke. He recalled her apologizing for her “unacceptable outburst" in the Flying Taxi travelling to Ballonlea. Off to an amazing start, he’d thought.
“When I invited you to breakfast, I meant it. A meal, that is. I only ask you to bring an empty stomach," she said.
He complied, making his way to the dining table, realizing she may have wanted him to wash the plates and cutlery they'd be using for the meal. It was only when he began to pull out his chair that he noticed he hadn't let go of the Clefairy plush. He sank down into the seat with a groan, placing the plush on his lap in hopes to conceal it.
He sat there, itching for something to do, when his sleeves fell back and it dawned on him he was still in his pajamas; a migraine-inducing bright indigo with a Morelull pattern, perhaps the tackiest garment he'd worn (and in Ballonlea, that was quite the feat). Still, he felt a growing fondness for it as he noticed how the cotton gently wrapped around his figure, embracing him.
Though, he resented how he looked and felt like a child. Plushie in hand, starting the day in pajamas with an impossibly tangled bedhead.
That same appetizing scent wafted to the table, teasing his nose with a fresh, buttery aroma. Faintly familiar, but mostly foreign, he craned his neck to see Ms. Opal approaching the table with a platter of light golden discs.
It was only when she set the platter in front of him that he recognized the baked goods as scones. Despite being a Galarian, he had to admit he’d only had a bite of them once, with his parents. The orphanage’s idea of a treat was a cardboard-inspired biscuit—essentially a stone of glorified flour. Meanwhile both the cafeteria and banquet hall at Rose Tower served saccharine chocolate pudding; it was indulgent, at the time, but the sweetness overcompensated for the true… emptiness of the dish.
He was jolted from his thoughts by Ms. Opal motioning to the tongs, which he used to place one scone on his plate before passing the utensil to her. He expected her to take a seat at one end of the table, but her plate had been set across from his seat instead.
That made it more difficult to conceal his reaction in case anything wasn’t to his taste, but for whatever reason, he felt there would be no need for that.
His eyes ran over the table: Two jars, one filled with a pale red, jelly-like fluid, the other holding white dots coated in pink. A porcelain royal violet, gold-accented teapot, with matching platters, teacups, and spoons. And, of course, the platter of scones Ms. Opal was now taking from.
He raised an eyebrow at the dishes; technically familiar, but puzzling nonetheless.
Allowing his question to escape in no more than his expression, he rose from his seat to the teapot. Setting the matching platters, teacups, and spoons at both his and Ms. Opal's spots, he carefully poured the fragrant drink and returned to his seat.
He searched for cutlery around his plate, but upon finding none, hesitantly reached for the baked good.
Bracing for a scolding, or even a strike, he slowly raised the scone to his lips, taking a nibble of the soft, buttery pastry. Warmth kissed his fingertips and settled in his throat, spreading to his stomach as he swallowed.
His small bites eventually eroded the pastry, leaving him with only the perplexity of his unconscious longing for scones when he'd only had the smallest taste of it a decade ago.
He shouldn't take longer than needed. He could begin on the dishes with his plate and cup, and finish just in time for hers. Steam rushed to his face as he leaned over his teacup, inhaling the aroma of sweet, subtle ginger. Not one ripple distorted the reflection staring back at him, each platinum blond curl trickling down the back of his neck.
He lifted the cup, sipping the familiar Shan Lin Xi Oolong, eventually gulping down the boiling drink as its flavor became lost in the heat. It wouldn't be the first time he'd endured pain to feel warmth.
"In a rush, child? Your tea has barely cooled, and I doubt one scone is a full meal," Ms. Opal chided.
The boy back then in the Trainer's School, hunched over a desk for nearly a day straight, would beg to differ.
"It is a Saturday morning, after all. And the dishes can wait."
Frustratingly perceptive.
He suppressed a sigh as he set the cup down, his tongue rough and numb. What was it to her anyway? Perhaps she took it as offense to her baking, that he'd rush through the meal?
After all, he supposed this was the first time he had eaten something she prepared. When he finished a training session, or made his way to and from the stadium, he’d quickly stop for takeout and eat the meal in his room. He'd always considered it a courtesy, always assumed she would appreciate not being leeched off of, but she must have misconstrued it as snobbery.
Very well, he’d humour her. Tongs in hand, he reached for another scone while his drink cooled.
Suddenly, a jovial tone rang out from the other side of the table.
"Good morning, Annette,” Ms. Opal chimed, picking up her phone.
Bede’s eyes wandered in a lousy attempt at minding his own business as the vague noise of the Gym Trainer's chatter emanated from Ms. Opal's phone. His gaze lingered upon the jars he'd spotted earlier, analysing his memories of the past week and how she could have possibly known-
She slid both jars toward him as she responded to the Gym Trainer, "I see… I suppose that does create a few issues for us."
Bede's head snapped up from his inspection of the jars’ contents.
“Well, productions are never easy, hm? Nothing could quite compare to the chaos behind the Sound of Meloetta of 2012, but oh, what fun it was in the end! In any case, feel free to take a break. I will take a look at the situation this afternoon."
Another quick, unintelligible affirmation, then she placed her phone face-down on the table. Meanwhile, Bede left the butter knife sticking up from one of the jars, unsure which sensation to process first: disbelief, snark, or aching inertia.
He gathered his thoughts, sitting up with his head tilted upwards. "I suppose this is my next Gym Leader lesson: Shirking one's responsibilities and encouraging others to do the same."
The old woman only smiled as she stirred her tea. Arceus, he resented that smile. "It can wait, child."
There it was again.
“Wait for wh…" Perhaps he shouldn't ask questions for which he'd be bracing for the responses to.
He assumed she hadn’t heard until she pierced the silence. “Go on. You were saying something just now.”
He shuffled in his seat, crossing his arms with a huff. “Never mind it.”
At last, she seemed to drop the matter. And Bede carried on with his second scone, spreading the Chople Berry jam on it before topping it with a couple spoonfuls of Pomeg Berry seeds. He hadn't had a proper scone before, but he could imitate the way Ms. Opal halved the pastry and applied toppings to it.
He took a bite, and with the slight kick of the Chople berries contrasting the soft chewiness of the seeds and fluffy warmth of the pastry, his assumptions were confirmed.
“Hattrem’s Kelpsy berries, the tea, this jam, these seeds… They are not mere coincidences, are they?"
"No. I suppose I’d made it much too obvious, hm?"
“Perhaps, but how you knew is less so.”
She stopped stirring her tea, placing the small spoon on the plate by the cup. “Well, how could I not?”
He tilted his head ever so slightly, racking his brain on anything that could have given him away while waiting to see if she would elaborate.
She didn’t disappoint. “I see how you care for your Pokémon each day, and the only things that fill your basket when we buy groceries. As for the scone toppings, you may insist on taking your café to-go on the way to the stadium every morning, but I am not blind."
She… noticed? He wouldn’t dare to think she cared , but…
"I have also seen how keen you are on rising early. You are shuffling about at dawn most days, but you rarely bring any of your Pokémon with you. Why is that?”
“They all wake at different times, and I am no headmaster nor drill sergeant."
"Is that so?"
“Yes, Ponyta wakes the earliest, and needs help with brushing his mane before his breakfast of Pecha berries. Although wild Hattrem require a considerable amount of rest, she tends to rise quite early, oftentimes within an hour of Ponyta. Duosion's two brains can create a bit of difficulty, at times he rises at dawn, other times near noon. And Gothorita's sleep is similarly variable, depending on the brightness of starlight and how late she stays up as a result. I would typically accompany her, back when… Back when I gathered Wishing Stars for the chairman."
"That's quite thoughtful of you."
A scoff. "It is the bare minimum . Why would anyone choose to become a Trainer if they are not willing to care for their Pokémon?"
She shrugged. "I've seen motivations ranging from aesthetics to rarity.”
“So… trophies?”
“You’d be surprised how few see it that way."
He scowled, tightening his hand into a fist. "Shameless, the lot of them. Those 'Trainers' have no right to declare themselves such, nor do they deserve the loyalty of the Pokémon they train. Pokémon have every right to be cared for, not to be flaunted, molded, used-"
He cut his rising voice off with a deep breath. It was remarkable how quickly he could rile himself up with Hattrem absent. Though, oddly enough, a slight weight was lifted off his chest with the passionate words.
"Are you alright?" Ms. Opal reached for his hand with her own before he flinched and withdrew. Instead, she placed another scone on his plate.
There came that nagging thought once more. A rumble of thunder within his skull echoed that familiar sentiment: You don't deserve this.
He didn't deserve this.
Could he deserve this?
Did he need to?
That was a rather novel notion. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it other than to instinctually reject it.
He thought through it with chews of the warm scone, swallowing his sentiments with a sip of tea. He threw a glance to the empty chair he'd slipped the Clefairy plush into, but decided to keep the childishness confined to his room.
The clinking of utensils and even Ms. Opal’s occasional chatter graced his ears for the rest of the meal. He’d responded to her first remarks with a few words at most, then decided to remain silent, to which she only piped up with a new subject after a few minutes. After some time, he'd been the one deciding to begin the conversations.
Between her words, the wind chimes twinkled in the distance.
It was quiet, but not silent.
Sitting at that table, in that moment, he looked on, allowing his tangled hair to fall on his face as he took in the scene and who he shared it with. Soon came a sentiment he wasn't sure he expressed verbally or mentally,
"Perhaps… I could get accustomed to this."
