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It’s cold tonight in Circhester.
It’s cold every night in Circhester. It’s cold every morning, too, as a matter of fact, here where the frost never thaws and the snowmen are living.
This is home for you. You certainly don’t look the part, though. You never have – mum says you’ve always been hotheaded; half the pictures of you in her album of baby photos (that she seemingly insists on presenting to every resident of Galar) are of you playing in the hot springs with Tyranitar figures, and you begged her for a Shuckle since the moment you saw one in a book. Your sister went for Snom.
There’s nothing special to say on the matter. You’ve just never liked the cold much, and you’ll never understand what mum sees in it.
You disappeared without a word a month ago after a fight with her. Keeping up with her gym duties while wrangling your three youngest siblings hasn’t been easy for her.
You know that you’re the obvious choice and that you owe her, but you can’t force yourself to be something you’re not.
It ended in a tie. The whole town watched as you took nothing but your Pokemon and left silently, bitter as ice.
It’s been a month. You haven’t spoken a word with mum or your sister since then. You’ve been bumming with your friend who lives in a warmer part of Galar instead. You thought the warm get-away would help, but for some reason, even while bathed in the toasty bright sunlight, you only grew colder, and colder, and colder.
You had to come back at night. Circhester doesn’t get a great many visitors besides gym challengers and enthusiastic fans coming to watch battles, so everyone knows everyone. If you were spotted during the day you’d drown in questions.
Wouldn’t look too cool with the girls, either, trudging right back to mummy like you couldn’t defend your stance or something.
The sky is a gloomy blue. Powdery snow is still lightly falling from the sky, coating your hair like ash. Circhester is illuminated by lights strung-up in the shape of snowflakes and the sparkling wings of Frosmoth. They are latched onto every frozen-over telephone pole and window there is, feasting on snow and guarding their soon-to-hatch eggs with their wings.
They turn their heads to look at you as you approach them, staring with their intelligent, complex, compound emerald eyes. They know who you are. There is no fear or aggression in their gaze. Rather, they stare at only with concern as you struggle to carve a path through the sea of white. There was a blizzard just recently and, naturally, you forgot to bring the winter clothes that mum constantly chews you out about, so you’re up to your bare thigh in snow.
Maybe you picked a bad time to come home. Whatever. There’s never a good time in Circhester, weather-wise. You shake your head at them to dismiss their concerns and they look away from you, but you know they have a point. Tonight is a special kind of cold, a bruising, lung-busting cold; if it were daylight the glare of the sun would turn the hills of snow right outside your frosty window a blinding white that hurt to look at.
Your ears and the tip of your nose are frostbitten and blooming purple-red, your clothes are soaked from snow, and your bare fingers are going numb in your pockets.
You can see a particular building in the distance, though, and in its ice-glazed window there's a familiar outline that makes your heart leap and suddenly you feel warm, warmer than ever, even in the middle of a blizzard.
You don’t like the cold. Maybe even hate it. You still find yourself reaching for the frozen doorknob with your ice-bitten red fingers anyways. You don't know why.
The icicles drooling from it bite at your hand as you slowly turn and you wince, but you can hear a familiar voice and bubbly laughter inside. It cuts right through the pain.
You open the door and step inside. It shuts behind you with a click.
Mum is frozen with shock when she sees you. She's just returned from putting your younger siblings to bed. Darmanitan is by her feet and its eyes are as wide as plates.
You can't look her in the eyes. The house has gone silent and only noise is your heart thumping like a drum in your ears. The shame sets in fast. You know you should just turn around and go already. It was wrong, what you did, ditching your family for four weeks to go mope over some disagreement, then showing up out of nowhere in the middle of the night like a--
Mum suddenly cries out with delight. "Gordie!"
It's at that moment you break. You launch yourself at her and she meets you halfway in a crushing hug filled with the sincerity and love that only a mother can deliver. You respond with the same enthusiasm, giving her all you’ve got.
“Oh, welcome home, dear! I'm glad to see you. I hope the snow outside didn't give you too much trouble, now..."
“…Uh,” you mutter, briefly taken aback by her instant acceptance. "Yeah."
But that's just like her. You've been bickering more than usual, sure, but mum's never really angry or disappointed or angry. Just stern.
“Missed you too, mum.”
Her hug doesn't let up. Her arms are tight and cozy and comfortable and even when you're at your age and taller than she is you can still sink into them and let your problems melt away.
"...I, uh," you stammer, thinking back to the smoke clearing, revealing both a downed Lapras and Tyranitar. "Sorry I left like that."
Mum chuckles. It's hearty and full-belly, the kind of laugh that could cheer anybody up. “Oh, that's just called being in your twenties, dear. I knew you'd show up again eventually.”
The snow picks up outside, wind howling against the windows.
You don't care for it. You're much more into rocks and earthquakes and hot deserts, that kind of thing.
But you really do like your mum an awful lot. You love her, in fact.
"We'll talk about it tomorrow."
You nod.
"Just do me a favour," mum says, pulling away from you with her hands on your shoulders. "Next time you disappear, bring some proper winter clothes already, will you?"
It's cold every night and every day in Circhester, where the frost never thaws and the snowmen are alive.
You can't say you like the place much. You kind of hate it, actually. As far as you're concerned, the cold sucks and snow gets old fast. You have no idea why mum's infatuated with the stuff when she can barely make it out the door in the morning without flooding the house.
It's home for you, though, and chilly as it is, right now you're warmer than ever.
Eh. Maybe you'll catch an Ice-type later.