Chapter Text
TM97: Fly
Larry has always thought himself plain; he is vanilla-flavoured, in the ice cream parlour of the world. Steady, ordinary... sweet, intelligent, but he doesn't have a scrap of poetry in his soul. Hassel's eloquence is beyond him, the easy conducted grace of clever, quick-witted speech patterns; the drama and flair and talent of his husband Brassius is equally unfathomable, but...
He has birds, and he has a beloved too, now - a beloved that quenches his thirst for affection, a gentle presence that lives flush against his heart. Katy doesn't care if he's inelegant, or tired, or boring - somehow, she cherishes him exactly as he is.
He can't enunciate what that means; can't find the words, the prose, to promise her the earth for her devotion, to explain a lifetime of misunderstandings, mockeries, wounds that she's dissolved into ash, as though they never mattered in the first place. He could cry, with the heat and the heart and unbridled joy of it all, yet he's forced silent.
Though... he can show her, he thinks. Just a touch of the contentment, the adoration - a fraction of a fragment, a sliver of his soul. He imagines that even if he were a poet, or an artist, he would still fall tragically short, but this... will work.
... He hopes.
And so he does what he does best, and organises. He plans an evening off from his busy schedule; he speaks to Tropius, who is ostensibly very much not a bird, but is more capable of what he has in mind; he packs glasses and champagne into a shoulder bag, and a single rose, a brilliant, shimmering red.
He is nothing if not traditional, after all, and what says 'I love you' better than a rose?
He swallows nervously as he asks her, a day later.
"Date night? I'm completely free..."
She lights up instantly, as though she's Levincia at dusk.
"I'd love to, dear. Did you have anything in mind?"
He almost laughs, a soft smile curling around his lips. "Well, as it happens..."
They head to the roof and raise to the stars on Tropius, sighing contentedly as arms are wrapped around him, giggles erupting from her at the height and the adventure.
I may be vanilla, but I can still show you a piece of the world you’ve given me.
Tropius drops them off on a Mesagozan rooftop, their legs dangling over the side of a residential building; he cracks champagne with a smile, offers her his rose, and she regards him tearfully, compromised. It’s old-fashioned, the way he speaks his love language; he’s traditionalism, and ordinary, and quiet.
She doesn’t mind. She never minds. If he were a Pokemon, he’d have inherited Super Luck simply through osmosis.
“This was wonderful,” she tells him softly, beaming as she rests against his shoulder. “It has a meaning, doesn’t it?”
He glances at her, sheepish; she always understands.
“I’m… not very good, Kate, at things like this,” he mutters, “but I wanted to show you, that I used to feel as small as the people down there, insignificant and unknown, and now… here I am. Up in the clouds. And there are better ways to say it, I know –”
“No, there aren’t,” she tells him warmly, eyes sparkling. “And even if there were, they’re all irrelevant, darling. This is how you showed me, and you are just perfect, exactly as you are.”
He chuckles in disbelief, his forehead dropping softly to hers, a gesture of silent intimacy. If there is perfection on this roof it is uniquely hers, but… perhaps he doesn’t need it. Perhaps he doesn’t need a single thing else; perhaps he doesn’t need honeyed words, or wild creativity.
… Perhaps he just needs to love her, as she does him – tenderly, quietly, and with all of his vanilla heart.
He can do that, he thinks adoringly. He can definitely do that.