Chapter Text
The house was quiet.
Rain tapped lightly against the windows, not enough to drown anything out, just enough to make the world outside hard to decipher. Chespin had cleared the living room table of tools and half-finished projects, replacing them with notebooks, pens, and a single lamp pulled close so its light pooled between them. The rest of the room remained dim.
All three of them sat together on the floor around the table. Chespin sat there, posture stiff, pen already uncapped but going nowhere.
No one spoke at first.
Fennekin broke the silence by reading aloud from an instruction sheet. Her voice was steady but casual, like this was any other assignment.
“English essay. Minimum 2 pages. Prompt: What was the hardest moment in your life, and how did you overcome it?”
She grimaced and scoffed. Prompts like this were a shot in the dark at the best of times. Either you had a million things to say or you just didn’t. No real inbetween to comfortably sit with.
“That’s…eh.”
Mudkip huffed a quiet laugh, “Yeah. ‘Overcame it’ feels optimistic.” Of course they all had their hard moments. But to pick the worst that they dealt with? That was asking quite a bit. At their age, the hardest moment should’ve been something like a grandparent passing, someone moving away, or failing an important test.
None of them had what they’d consider completely normal childhoods.
Chespin was silent for the most part. He was staring at the blank page in front of him, pen hovering just above it. His grip was tight, his paw and in turn the pen trembled.
Fennekin noticed immediately. She scooted over, hooking her arm over his back and rested her head on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into the contact. Fennekin used her free paw to hold her blank pages and stared at them for a minute.
It had taken so long for touch to not send a wave of shock through Chespin. Fennekin being the only Pokémon to understand it took time to really get to know Chespin. It took significantly less time with Mudkip as Fennekin had paved the way.
Neither asked too much about why he reacted that way, knowing very well who was to blame.
“Well,” she said gently, shifting gears. “We don’t have to share the hardest moment, maybe second hardest.”
Mudkip shrugged. “I mean, they asked. Might as well give them an honest answer.”
Chespin swallowed.
The scratch of the pen on paper was tentative at first. Mudkip stopped barely a paragraph in.
He stared at the page, then at his hands, then away. His tail curled in on itself tightly.
“…I didn’t think this would be the one I’d write about,” he said quietly.
Fennekin tilted her head back to look at him. “You don’t have to.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s fine. I just-” He exhaled slowly. “It’s weird. Because technically I didn’t really…lose anybody.”
Chespin stopped writing. Fennekin tilted her head.
Mudkip pressed his thumb into the paper, sliding down. “I had a sibling. Well, I was supposed to have a sibling.” Neither recognized the story Mudkip began to tell.
That mere statement felt familiar to think about, ponder on the possibilities and missed opportunities. And yet, it felt weird to say aloud. It was simply the truth, a fact that didn't feel too painful to acknowledge. The explanation behind it was the hard part.
“They… stopped developing,” Mudkip continued, closing his eyes momentarily. He recalled how much his parents had prepared. The baby clothes, their room being fully finished and decorated with a distinctive yellow theme. Stars decorated the walls, spaced out with precision. A baby mobile hung over the crib with the sun in the middle, surrounded by clouds with smiley faces painted on.
By the time the egg was born, everything was perfect. The hard part was waiting. Eggs took time to hatch, every baby was different after all. Mudkip hatched in a day, which was surprisingly quick.
His sibling never did.
“The shell didn’t crack after weeks.”
His voice caught in his throat.
As those days stretched into weeks then months, he and his parents lost more and more hope. Mudkip heard crying from his parents bedroom after it was painfully clear it was over. He remembered how they started to be more attentive, and how embraces became longer. He understood quickly why those things happened at such a young age.
He took a deep breath and kept going. His voice stayed steady.
“I don’t know why I feel so bad about it. I didn’t get to know them and who they’d grow up to be. But sometimes I dream about being warm. About being… hugged by someone. And when I wake up it feels like I lost someone all over again.”
Chespin had turned fully toward him now, crawling closer and cupping the sides of Mudkips face. His fins poured out between the others fingers, a velvety texture Chespin loved to feel and play with.
Mudkip let out a shaky laugh, gaze shifting to the floor while Chespin wiped stray tears away. “My parents used to tell me things like this just happen sometimes and for years, I always thought…it wasn’t supposed to happen to us. Maybe that’s a selfish way of thinking.”
Fennekin reached over and gently tugged his sleeve. He looked at her, relaxing.
“You can acknowledge horrible things happen, but it never prepares you to live through it. Does it?” She sighed. Mudkip’s shoulders slumped, that cold ache that came with bitter nostalgia slowly faded.
“I think,” Mudkip murmured, “I overcame it by letting myself…grieve if that makes sense.
Fennekin smiled sadly. “It does.”
Mudkip nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He picked his pen back up and began to write again.
Fennekin stared at her own pages for a long time before writing anything. When she did, her pen moved fast.
“My mom and I didn’t always live in Monotown,” she said suddenly.
Chespin felt his chest tighten. He’d known this. Not all the details. Just a vague, emotionally stripped version of what happened.
“We bounced around,” she continued. “Couches. Shelters. Places where you weren’t supposed to stay more than a few months.”
Her tail flicked once, eyes narrowing at her page.
“There was this shelter that let us stay longer if you were… useful.” She didn’t look at them. “I was young enough that they never asked me for anything. But my mom would leave at night and come back exhausted. Sometimes crying. Sometimes smelling like cheap cologne.”
Mudkip’s grip on his notebook tightened.
“I never saw anything,” Fennekin said quickly, almost defensively. “But I knew. And I hated myself for being the reason she had to do it.”
Her voice wavered as she dropped the pen. She pressed her forehead to her knees.
“I learned how to be quiet,” she whispered. “How to not ask for things. How to pretend I didn’t notice when she came back shaking.”
Chespin set his papers down and hugged her tightly.
“You were a little kid,” he said quietly. “You couldn’t do anything, really...”
Fennekin nodded. She turned and buried her face briefly into her paws, fingers twisting at her own fur and flesh.
“I overcame it,” she said, muffled, “By…learning it wasn’t my fault and loving my mother so much more.” Mudkip reached and laced his fingers with hers. They stayed like that for a while.
Eventually, they turned to Chespin. He hadn't written a single word, page still blank.
“You don’t have to,” Mudkip said gently.
Chespin shook his head. Too fast. “I do.” It felt obligatory in a way, something he had never told anyone. Not even the two Pokémon closest to him and just a few inches away. He stared at the paper like it might burst into flames.
“When my parents died,” Chespin started finally, taking a few seconds to really ponder on it.
“They were killed. It was… never solved.” His breath hitched. “But it wasn’t…that. I barely remember anything when we got the news.” His pen clattered onto the table.
Upon hearing “we” Mudkip and Fennekin both tensed, glancing at each other wearily.
“He told me,” Chespin whispered, voice cracking, “that things would be okay.”
His shoulders began to shake.
Fennekin pulled him fully into her arms. Mudkip wrapped around them both. Chespin didn’t cry yet. He just sat there, trembling, held by the two pokémon who loved him most.
The hospital was a blur of white. He could not remember any of the nurses’ faces. Names were little more than meaningless gibberish. He remembered only two things with clarity. Sitting in Sylveon's lap, and covering his eyes with his paws. He felt hidden that way, safer. Secured by his arms that tightened then relaxed every few minutes.
Chespin had not spoken at that time. He hadn’t yet begun to speak until he was seven. When voices around him blended into each other and the word homicide was thrown out, he just knew his life had changed. At six years old, he didn’t understand the word but from what he gathered from Sylveon’s reaction? It was something that left permanent consequences. He understood that his parents weren’t coming back home with him.
He remembered the shaking of Sylveon’s shoulders, the way the larger Pokémon sat rigid. Sylveon’s arms had been only partly steady. At moments they were perfectly composed. Paws clasped around Chespin, jaw set and at other moments he would catch himself and let out a breath that sounded choked.
“Stay with me,” Sylveon had said once, quietly enough that no one else seemed to hear. He had curled up and held onto Sylveon like a komala, the motion was almost instinctual but immediate nonetheless. He didn’t know what else to do.
Then they were home. The door had shut behind them with a faint click.
Sylveon tried to take Chespin to his bed, to tuck him in and let him rest. Chespin clung to him. He wrapped his arms around Sylveon and would not loosen his grip. He absolutely could not be alone right now. Sylveon didn’t protest. He didn’t have the energy.
He sat on the edge of the bed and let Chespin cling. When it became clear Chespin could not be soothed to sleep, Sylveon rose. He carried him downstairs without a word. The living room lights were left off. Only the television flickered and remained at zero volume. Sylveon sank onto the couch with Chespin in his arms. Neither spoke.
Hours dragged by. The television flickered faces and colors that meant nothing. Sylveon sat like a sentinel, eyes fixed on the wall as if it would make him feel any better.
Chespin’s crying began with quiet hiccups. He did not wail at first; But as the night dragged on, the quiet became so unbearable- the sound of his sobs became ragged. He was almost panicking, and still Sylveon did not move. He stayed there like an anchor.
What stayed with Chespin the most, what his mind had failed to block out, was the absolute, dead emptiness of his house.
Sylveon spoke up only once.
“It's okay, I’ve got you.”
Those words, once words of comfort, hollowed over the years.
Writing it down now, trying to translate that silence into written sentences felt nearly impossible. Chespin’s hand wrote clumsy letters. He scratched out a line and then wrote it again. He could feel Fennekin’s and Mudkip’s eyes on him, patient and quiet. Fennekin’s thumb had been rubbing circles on his shoulder since he’d started.
When Chespin tried to write what it all felt like, he found he kept going in circles. He said it was okay. The sentence felt different now that he had lived years of being held and hurt by the same hand, but at six years old it was a life raft in a vast ocean.
He paused, pen hovering over previously written words.
“I remember being held on the couch,” he scribbled, voice small when he read it aloud so he could hear the sentence outside of his head. “I remember the TV light, the smell in the room, the way-”
Chespin was about to write dad, but he instead wrote his name.
“-Sylveon kept saying it was okay.” He knew it was a white lie, he only said it once but it just kept on repeating in his head.
“But I was six,” he added, the pen trembling in his paw. “I didn’t understand what that meant. I thought it meant I would be safe. I thought I could be strong but really? I wasn’t. I don’t think I’m strong now either.”
Mudkip and Fennekin gazed at each other with what looked like guilt. They couldn’t heal what was broken, they could help, try their best to lift Chespin up but it wouldn't ever be enough for a full recovery. That simple truth stung.
Chespin wrote until his hand cramped, until the curve of the letters started to look messy. When he finally set the pen down, his voice was nearly nothing.
“I don’t think I overcame it at all.”
Fennekin’s face turned into an expression of devastation as she gave him a tender peck on the lips. Mudkip’s arms tightened around him.
Outside, rain picked up again. Chespin let his eyes close and rest a second. He had never fully remembered what happened, he didn’t want to. But at least he had gotten this pain out in a way, finally processing parts that had been buried for years.
Fennekin pressed her forehead to his shoulder, Mudkip wiped away tears Chespin didn’t even register were falling.
But as hopeless as returning to that night felt, it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would be. Not with his partners by his side.
With a shaky swipe of his sleeve across his eyes, Chespin pushed himself to his feet and reached down, offering both paws. Mudkip took one immediately, springing up with a splash of energy like he’d been waiting for permission, while Fennekin accepted the other more slowly, squeezing Chespin’s paw once before standing. The contact lingered just a second longer than necessary but no less welcome.
“…It’s been a while since we’ve gone for a walk,” Chespin said, voice still a little rough but steadier now. He glanced toward the windows, where rain streaked down the glass in uneven paths, the streetlights outside blurring into soft halos. “Especially in the rain.”
Mudkip’s eyes lit up, tail beginning to sway back and forth in an eager rhythm. “We’d love to,” he said, nodding a little too fast.
Fennekin made a show of sighing, dramatic and long, one paw pressed to her chest. “Wow,” she said. “Dragging a fire type out into the rain. Such cruelty. Such disregard for my well-being.” Even as she “complained”, she was already steering them both toward the door.
Mudkip snorted. “You know that’s a myth,” he said, shaking his head as he reached for his coat. “I can’t believe you’re literally bullying us with lies.”
“Please,” Fennekin shot back, tugging her coat on and flicking Mudkip’s hood up over his head with a grin, kissing the top of his forehead. They suited up in easy, practiced motions. Zippers tugged, buttons fastened, scarves adjusted. Fennekin fussed with Chespin’s collar until it sat just right.
Then the door opened, and cool air rushed in.
All three stepped out together, the rain immediately freckling their coats and fur, soft and steady. Mudkip laughed outright, splashing a little on purpose as they reached the sidewalk. Fennekin rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away when Chespin reached for her paw, or when Mudkip slid in on his other side, shoulder brushing his.
The door closed behind them, the house left quiet and distant. Ahead, the street stretched out, so much more welcoming than it ever had before.
☘︎ৡ༄
All three had returned home after an hour, the rain had been slowly clearing up and allowed them to see the sun setting in the cloudy sky. Their cue to pack up and leave.
Fennekin and Mudkip left with promises to be back early the next day, to revise their drafts together, Chespin promised to make breakfast for the three of them. He closed the door behind them, stepped back as a feeling of loneliness creeped in, and trudged to the kitchen.
Being alone was something Chespin could never truly get used to, especially when he was younger. A lot of times after his parents passed he’d be awoken by nightmares and couldn’t fall back asleep no matter how hard he tried.
It was just too quiet.
Chespin ended up sneaking into Sylveon’s room and crawling into bed. Sylveon never discouraged it, but he didn’t exactly protest when Chespin began sleeping in his own bedroom as he got older.
He washed dishes absentmindedly. Recalling those times of sleeping in Sylveon’s bed had many other memories attached to it.
Sometimes Chespin would find Sylveon in the kitchen, sitting at the table and staring bleakly at nothing. Chespin would tug at his sleeve, banged pots and pans, and yelled as loud as he could. His pleas for Sylveon to do something, anything were futile. Eventually, he’d give up and begin to sob. He’d hug Sylveon and would scoot a chair next to him and sit there for hours.
He’d always wake up in his bed, and Sylveon seemingly back to normal.
Chespin didn’t like remembering. It always made him feel sick.
After the last cup was rinsed, Chespin went upstairs to his bedroom, flopping down onto his bed. He laid still, the silence of the room being less than comforting. He let his head fall back, watching pale light come in through the blinds.
Outside, the wind picked up, making the dry leaves scuttle like paper. Chespin briefly pondered on if he’d remembered to lock the backdoor, just in case Leafeon made one of his late night visits again. However, soon as that worry came it was squashed by replaying the day's events in his head. He had locked it before they began working.
He closed his eyes, snuggling into the covers. As much as he hated the silence, he knew it wouldn’t be forever.
And with that, Chespin drifted off into sleep.
☘︎ৡ༄
Sylveon came home long after dark.
The front door slammed open, the frame rattled. Chespin heard it from upstairs and immediately tensed. There was laughter, unfamiliar at first. Overlapping with giggles was the sound of uneven scrapes of shoes against the floor.
Leafeon’s voice followed, amusement laced his tone.
“Careful,” he said, not bothering to sound sincere.
Chespin’s chest tightened. He did not move at first. He listened instead. He heard two pairs of footsteps, but only one voice.
He got up and slowly made his way to the bedroom door, careful to not make noise.
By the time Chespin reached the top of the stairs, he saw Sylveon coming inside, struggling to keep upright, and Leafeon’s arm slung around his waist, allowing him to lean against his body. Sylveon’s eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, the ribbons at his neck; the only pair of ribbons moving were the ones flowing from the bow on his head. Even those were descending as if they were feeling exhausted as well.
Leafeon looked… pleased.
“There we go,” Leafeon said, steering him forward. “Home.”
He did not guide Sylveon onto the couch so much as shoving him down onto it. Sylveon landed with a soft thump, the cushions dipping under his weight. Before he could orient himself, Leafeon was already leaning in, hands braced on either side of him, mouth pressing insistently against his.
Sylveon didn’t respond, didn’t kiss back, and didn’t refuse. He just laid there.
Chespin stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
For a minute, he wasn’t noticed.
Leafeon chuckled into the kiss, teeth catching briefly on Sylveon’s lower lip. “You always get so quiet when you drink,” he murmured, like it was endearing. “It suits you better.”
Chespin felt like throwing up on the spot. Instead of vomit, two words came out instead.
“Stop it.”
The demand was not loud.
Leafeon froze.
He pulled back slowly, irritation flashing across his face as he turned. His eyes found Chespin standing there. Pajamas on, shoulders slumped, face unreadable.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
Leafeon straightened, smoothing his suit as if the interruption were merely inconvenient.
“…Right,” he said, speaking through grit teeth. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Sylveon’s head lolled to the side. He blinked blearily, gazing over at Chespin without focusing on him. “Hey,” he mumbled, smiling faintly at nothing. “You’re… you’re up late.”
Leafeon got up, annoyance turning into something uglier. “You should be in bed.” he snapped at Chespin.
Chespin didn’t bother to answer that.
He simply looked at Sylveon.
Taking in the slack posture, the unfocused eyes, the way he was simply disengaged to anything happening. Chespin felt his chest ache at the sight. It was one thing seeing his father sober, and fully aware of what he was doing. It was another seeing him like this.
“I think you should leave, Mr. Leafeon.” Chespin folded his arms and gestured his head towards the door, trying to sound as authoritative as he could.
Leafeon followed his gaze and scowled.
He turned and stormed to the front door, grabbing the doorknob and yanking it open. “Enjoy your night, Chespin.” He sneered, slamming the door hard enough to rattle pictures framed on the wall.
Sylveon lay on the couch, ribbons tangled, eyes half-lidded. Without Leafeon looming over him, he looked smaller. Pathetic in a way.
Chespin didn’t move before he sighed.
He went into the kitchen on autopilot and filled a glass with water. Grabbed a clean blanket from the hall closet, a pillow from the spare room. He hesitated at the cabinet, then reached up and pulled down a pecha berry.
As Chespin moved through the living room, there was a strange comfort in the routine of caring for his father.
Water first.
Then blanket.
Then a pillow.
Then the pecha berry on the table.
He placed a bucket nearby. Every movement was practiced. He draped the blanket over Sylveon’s shoulders and adjusted the pillow under his head. Sylveon stirred faintly but didn’t wake fully.
“…You didn’t have to.” Sylveon slurred, eyes fluttering open just enough to register him.
Chespin didn’t acknowledge that.
He caught himself staring at Sylveon’s ribbons for a minute too long as he adjusted the blanket. Not at their softness, not at their color. But at the way they lay slack when Sylveon was nearly passed out, the way they responded to breath and muscle memory rather than intent. Chespin’s gaze traced where they connected to the bows, how they must anchor beneath fur and skin. He began to map it out: structure, attachment points, how easy it could be to pull them.
He swallowed and forced his eyes away.
Chespin pressed his paws together until the thoughts faded, holding them together as if he were praying. As much as he wanted to turn on the inherited record player, or the tv for background noise, anything to break the silence- he just couldn’t. His limbs felt too heavy. His eyes drooped.
The shut off TV reflected both him and Sylveon. Chespin didn’t even bother turning away. Sylveon’s breathing was uneven. Every so often, his ribbons twitched as though he were trying to reach for something that wasn’t there.
“I miss them,” Sylveon mumbled suddenly. The words came out soft and honest in a way he never was while sober.
“I know,” Chespin muttered under his breath.
Sylveon swallowed. His voice wavered as he spoke again.
“You look so much like them,” his voice cracked. “I can’t… I can’t look at you sometimes.”
Those words didn’t hurt.
It surprised Chespin at how…okay he felt after those words were spoken.
“I know.”
Sylveon sat up, His paw twitched, dragging against the couch cushion, and his ribbons followed, slow and uncoordinated, lagging behind. One of them brushed Chespin’s wrist.
Chespin flinched, and the ribbon did not withdraw.
Instead, it curled. loose at first, then tighter, sliding along his forearm until it caught at his sleeve. Sylveon made a small sound of frustration, and tugged. It was weak, a kind of pull that assumed compliance.
Chespin seized up, every muscle locking in place. He stared down at the ribbon with wide eyes. Sylveon shifted again, restless. His paw lifted, groping blindly until it found his arm. Fingers closed around fabric. Then pulled. Chespin was immediately drawn closer. Sylveon leaned forward with a soft, broken sigh, a relieved one.
“There,” Sylveon murmured, voice thick and unfocused.
Chespin felt like two hands gripped his throat, neither word or breath could escape. He did not even think to step back.
The hug was not gentle, but not entirely forceful. It felt…fine. Sylveon’s breathing stuttered against him.
“Don’t go,” Sylveon whispered.
Chespin closed his eyes before he adjusted his posture.
He shifted his weight so Sylveon could lean more comfortably. He raised one arm, hesitant, and rested it against his side, not holding the other, not really. just… there. And sitting just on the edge of the couch.
Sylveon exhaled, relieved, and sagged further into him. His paw slid from Chespin’s sleeve to his wrist, fingers wrapping around it loosely but insistently. He squeezed once, then again.
Chespin stared at his own paw where it was trapped in Sylveon’s grasp. It was just his father holding his paw.
He didn’t pull away.
“I got a Furret, Primarina and Sprigatito…just for you.” Sylveon wearily mumbled, eyes closing. Chespin swallowed and buried the guilt that slammed into him by convincing himself the words were just drunk ramblings.
Nothing more.
Sylveon shifted again, clumsily repositioning until his arms were wrapped around Chespin, a full embrace now. His chin knocked against Chespin’s head, then settled.
Chespin bent slightly under the weight. He told himself it was temporary. He told himself Sylveon would let go once he fell asleep properly.
Minutes passed and he still didn’t let go.
His breathing slowed, deepened. Sleep crept in, but his body refused to release its hold. Every time Chespin shifted, even a little, Sylveon’s grip tightened reflexively. Chespin stopped moving entirely, finding the effort useless.
The television screen reflected them both. Sylveon folded over him, eyes closed, expression softened into something helpless. Chespin beneath him, half-obscured, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed forward.
Chespin’s legs and back began to ache due to bending over while being hugged. He ignored it.
Sylveon’s grip tightened abruptly, fingers digging into Chespin’s back, ribbons cinching closer. His face pressed harder against his son's head while laying back. Chespin jolted by the sudden change of position and now laying down.
“Don‘t leave. Whatever those two have- I can give you. I can give you the world, I can give you anything you want. I promise.”
Chespin’s face scrunched up, grimacing at the wording.
Sylveon’s breathing hitched, a sob trapped somewhere between inhale and exhale. His arms tightened again, fully now, pulling Chespin flush against him. Chespin didn’t react as Sylveon began to cry. Not loudly by any means, but audible just enough to make out.
Chespin’s paws laid at his sides uselessly before wrapping around Sylveon.
His thoughts drifted, unwanted and intrusive. He noted the way Sylveon’s ribbons wrapped around him, how they distributed pressure, how they tightened automatically when Sylveon’s grip weakened. He imagined what it would take to sever them, how much force it would take-
He stopped.
Pressed his palms harder against Sylveon’s back, grounding himself in the warmth and weight of his father.
Not now, he told himself. Not like this.
Sylveon relaxed incrementally, sleep finally claiming him. His grip loosened but never fully released. One ribbon slipped down Chespin’s arm. The two laid there, Sylveon against the couch and holding Chespin atop of him.
Chespin did not disentangle himself. Not out of fear- but the desire to be loved like this.
It hurt, it burned, it tore him to pieces at every single opportunity and left him numb to the bitter end. And yet, he stayed. He stayed in this hell because despite all the pain, he was offered solace by the very same thing destroying his body and mind.
It felt like he was chained, the shackles around both their ankles digging into flesh and piercing bone. The key was always in reach but inevitably would be kicked away.
The worst part of it all? Chespin was the one who kicked it away as much as Sylveon did.
Was he as much to blame for all of this as his father was?
He sat there, breathing shallowly, eyes fixed on the darkened television screen. His reflection stared back at him.
Sylveon shifted once more in his sleep, murmuring something. His arms tightened reflexively, just for a second.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Chespin did not hesitate with his reply.
“I love you too.”