Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He remembered falling.

Amethio wasn’t sure why he’d done it, or perhaps he knew all too well and the denial had gotten him in a chokehold, claws digging and slicing and prising at his back as it tore through and through and on and on like a knife on paper. He considered this point as carefully as he could under these unusual circumstances and decided, under the bathed eclipse of his unconscious mind, that he didn’t actually care for philosophy, or moral conundrums, or even simple questions. Truly, he should’ve died. Maybe a part of him had, a long time ago, and the pain that etched itself into the fabric of his fraying reality through the tether of those unsightly scars that he hid under his shirt had dulled and grown stale. Was it worth it to find a new way to hurt? Only to feel something? Anything? Amethio wasn’t sure it mattered anymore, the lines between manic pursuit and depressive acquiescence having long blurred and coalesced into one and the same, both comparable and not—this delicious, rotting juxtaposition that he was forced to swallow. It should’ve hurt back then, and it did. It should’ve hurt now, too, but it didn’t. Why didn’t it hurt? He pondered on this, and could only come to one singular conclusion.

He never hit the floor.

“… and some mild burns.”

Why?

“Mild?”

“First degree.”

He wasn’t sure. He didn’t remember.

“I see.”

It should’ve been cut and dry, the laws of inertia and gravity intertwining and merging into a horrifying amalgam of mistakes that forced Amethio’s plummeting body into an allegorical downward spiral. That had been the end, or so he assumed. It should have been the end, anyway.

And yet…

“Those shouldn’t take long to heal, at least— I’m thinking a week, at most.”

Voices.

“That’s a relief.”

He heard voices.

Something was afoot, surely; something wasn’t at all right. Everything that encompassed what he was, physical and mental and spiritual, felt… loose. Amethio couldn’t quite explain it, or put this unholy sensation of malaise and wrongness into words, and yet it stayed anyway: a metaphorical parasite, or perhaps a wandering, stray thought forcibly put to rest. Everything felt too foreign, too far away, yet uncomfortably close all the same. The words uttered— every intonation and accent and thick pause that lay strangled in between the syllables— Amethio could and couldn’t process at the same time in a contradictory chain of ideas. They were clear enough to be understood, but the pieces of the puzzle, despite being perfectly placed together into a bigger picture, simply painted a blank canvas. Words formed sentences, naturally. Amethio understood each word individually, but not the statement as a whole. Perhaps he should’ve known sooner. As things swayed and settled, teetering between one or the other until the pendulum of fate came to a halt, every term and phrasing that he failed to discern before, that had once felt so utterly unfamiliar, began taking shape within his consciousness. Clarity was within grasp. Amethio opened his eyes, slow and steady. He felt dead, but this was proof that he wasn’t.

Amethio hadn’t died, but this felt like hell anyway.

“As for his corviknight,” he heard, sharp and dull and straightforward all the same, something so personally recognizable and after his own heart that it hurt to think about, “the prognosis looks good so far. Nothing too serious.”

“I’d hope so, that was one hell of a blow back there.”

A pause.

“You said it was an OHKO, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Damn.”

“I don’t think it’s a surprise.”

“Yeah…”

Amethio heard the click of a pen, abrupt and uncalled for as it planted the seeds of a possible migraine inside his long-suffering cranium, his fate already written in blood. In a lapse of judgment, he found himself dwelling on it. That had come from his left, perhaps, not too close but not far enough that it felt like a hushed whisper. A tap pierced the discomfiting silence once, then twice, popping it like a balloon. Amethio’s headache worsened by the minute.

Maybe, just maybe, he deserved it.

“Something on your mind?”

Another click.

“Huh? Oh, nothing much, don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so.”

Click-click-clicking away.

That was enough.

Amethio decided that these charades would end then and there if he could help it. As he shifted under the covers that he’d barely found himself acknowledging up until that point, however, something ached; a localized pain at first, firmly stuck to his left wrist in a dull, faint ache, before spreading all over like a burning, sizzling plague. Amethio bit back a gasp, stuck to his throat like a tumor. The other shoe dropped then; the aching around his figure hadn’t quite spread at an unnatural pace so much as he’d only now come to realize it’d been there all along—waiting, watching, plotting and scheming. Pushing past the agony and past the headache and past his waning will to live, Amethio sat up, covers set aside for now. It was cold. Everything was so, so cold. His meandering gaze, inspecting the new surroundings, fell upon two recognizable figures. Pink hair, piercing honey irises, and facial expressions that spelled synchronous surprise. Amethio, too, supposed his countenance matched his inner turmoil at this horrifying realization that seemed to gradually catch up to him, slowly in the beginning and then all at once like an avalanche.

“Hey,” Friede said, perking up and snapping him out of it, “you’re finally awake!”

Amethio squinted, unsure.

“‘Finally’?”

“Yeah, you’ve been sleeping for a whole month now.”

The questions kept piling up.

“What.”

“Friede,” scolded the other, “quit it.”

Friede raised a hand, acceding. “Heh, I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s just been two days.”

“Literally how is that any better?” Amethio said, hiding his internal horror by shooting Friede the world’s most withering glance. Friede gave it some thought and came to the same conclusion. It was only natural, and yet something felt so utterly off about this whole thing.

“Good point.”

The unnamed woman wrote something down on a clipboard, clicking her tongue rather than her pen. Amethio decided he’d rather not know, overcome by annoyance and exhaustion alike. Something ate at him and he had an inkling he shouldn’t have, but asked anyway. “Where am I?”

“Welcome to the Brave Asagi.”

“The what.”

“Y’know, our ship,” Friede said, “that’s her name.”

Amethio stared.

“You gave your ship a name.”

“Yes.”

“And pronouns.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He gave up.

“… I guess I’ve seen weirder things.”

“Don’t all ships have pronouns anyway?” Friede asked, arms crossed as he pretended to think about it. Amethio knew where this was going. He dreaded the mere thought. “I’m pretty sure ‘it’ is a pronoun.”

“Stop nitpicking.”

“It’s factual and correct, sorry you failed the pronoun classes.”

“‘Pronoun classes’ aren’t a thing.”

“Says who.”

“The federal government.”

“Details, details.”

They were cut off by a sigh.

“Arceus, are we really doing this now? Right now? Is it toddler hours?” Friede and Amethio both turn to face the third person in the room, her presence going forgotten until now. Friede, at the very least, had the decency to look sheepish. Amethio wouldn’t give her that pleasure. She cared little for it, addressing him directly. “You remember what happened?”

Amethio scoffed. ‘Of course I don’t,’ he would say.

It was a measured response.

A fair response.

Right?

And then he thought about it for more than two seconds. He really did.

Amethio witnessed this progression of events unfurl in real time, like his life flashing before his eyes, like an album of memories stored within his mind, or like a very fucked up movie with plot points that just so happened to perfectly coincide with his inane choices up until that particular point. That which had been true once gradually became a lie, because it then hit him like a flying brick—those very recollections he claimed no ownership to. There was wind, and sunlight, and an earth-shattering howl. Amethio wasn’t one for philosophy, the appeal of cynicism much more alluring in the long run, but that one small, insignificant quote came to mind: ‘when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you’. That held up, surprisingly. How could Amethio have forgotten? How could he have allowed it to happen in the first place? Perhaps he came from a place of ignorance, or a place of curiosity, or a place of stupidity, or all three combined, but when he looked, and when he mused on it, he couldn’t find an inkling of regret. All Amethio could see was his own choices laid before him, one after another, like a string of photographs that composed a moving picture. He had no negative feelings about it, and he also had no positive feelings on the matter, just good old neutrality. It did suit him well enough. He heard that infuriating click again.

“Given your thousand-yard stare of shame,” she said, “I’m assuming the regret is catching up.”

And the headache was back.

“Ugh…”

“Well, we can at least rule memory loss out.”

Amethio watched her jot something else down on the clipboard, her writing hurried and possibly sloppy, and let curiosity get the best of him. The words tumbled out of their confines before he could truly process this mistake. “Are you a doctor?”

She paused, thinking about it, then resumed.

“I’m a registered Center Nurse.”

“That’s for pokémon.”

“And yet I’m still your best shot.”

“Oh, goodie.”

She motioned and pointed with the pen.

“Besides the sprained ankle and burns,” she told him, her expression unchanging even through the unfaltering snark, “you seem in high spirits.”

“That degree is really paying off.”

Friede interrupted.

“That was really reckless of you, by the way,” he said, tutting like a disappointed uncle.

“Beg pardon?”

“That Rayquaza could’ve murdered you.”

Amethio bristled.

“It wasn’t going to.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t,” he bit back, confident about it, “not until you interfered, at least.”

“I saved your life.”

“I’m so eternally grateful, I’ll be sure to give you my firstborn.”

Friede chuckled, unamused.

“If I hadn’t caught you, you would’ve had a mild case of… how do I put this… died.”

“That might have been more dignified.”

And the unnamed woman continued to scribble, not looking up. Amethio wasn’t sure what she was writing down but it couldn’t be flattering. “I’m sure the nearest morgue would’ve otherwise looked at your burnt pancake of a body and thought, ‘now that is a dignified way to die right here’. Truly the most honorable of legacies.”

Friede blinked. “Arceus, Mollie.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Well, no, but…”

“I don’t need to hear a lecture from you two of all people,” Amethio said.

“Huh?”

“Remember the storm, the one you carelessly dove into that night?”

“Um…”

“Because I remember that.”

“Ahem,” Friede coughed, recovering swiftly, “it’s called a measured risk!”

Amethio felt the rage bubbling up and quickly realized that he might as well be arguing with a hunk of ice. At least minerals didn’t speak back, and their ignorance could be excused. “No,” he said, eyes narrowed, “that is Hanlon’s razor and you would know that if you hadn’t flunked philosophy.”

“You followed us!”

“Broke into our ship, too,” added the woman, Mollie.

“And look where that led me.”

“Despite everything, sounds like you’re good enough to throw a tantrum.”

“I do not throw tantrums.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

A pause.

A decision.

“… I’ll be taking my leave.”

It was Mollie’s turn to stare, unsure of whether Amethio was being purposefully stubborn about this or if the Dragon Pulse from that Rayquaza had truly scrambled his brains to the point where he couldn’t even acknowledge the pain correctly. “Did you not hear the ‘sprained ankle’ portion of my earlier statement?”

“I am actively choosing to ignore it.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Save it.”

“Wait,” Friede said, “you can’t do that, you’re—”

“—leaving? Yes, I am.”

Amethio steeled himself. Mollie put the pen and clipboard down, not wanting to miss this, while Friede just looked on in visible worry. Mollie put three fingers up. Amethio wasn’t sure what for, until she started counting down. “Three…”

He got up.

“Two…”

However, once Amethio put his right foot down, the pain spiked upward and he lost his balance.

“One.”

He expected to hit the floor.

Instead, Amethio collided against Friede’s chest, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders to keep him from stumbling forward or to either side in his lack of stability. Mollie simply shook her head in disappointment, having long predicted this outcome, not because she was psychic but because she had eyes. “Like clockwork.”

Friede looked uncharacteristically soft.

“You okay?”

Amethio, realizing their precarious position, pushed him off and fell back onto the bed through the swaying momentum. His face felt hot, his body too, and he quickly, desperately tried to convince himself it was the product of the burning hatred within his heart for the Rising Volt Tacklers—for Friede in particular. Friede, the man who ruined his plans; Friede, the man that had halted his progress and stolen his duty; Friede, with his stupid, charming grin and defined muscles and dumb hair. This was not a blush, because Amethio Pommeroie didn’t blush like a lovesick teenager, he grew red with contempt like every respectable adult. Despite making sure this was the case at every turn, Amethio still covered his face with an arm, disguising it as a cough. No one would catch him dead like this if he could help it.

“I’m fine.”

“You know,” Mollie said, “beside your… everything.”

Whatever feelings of fake scorn remained within Amethio were quickly replaced by real, actual scorn, and he threw her a steel-melting glare which predictably did nothing—an unmovable object versus an unstoppable force, the stalemate of the century. How did they end up like this, he wondered, and then remembered he didn’t care to find out.

Friede sighed.

“Look,” he said, gesturing, “you’re clearly in no shape to go anywhere.” Amethio moved to speak, but he was faster. “Besides, we’ve already sailed and I don’t think you got any means to get back on land.”

“I have Goliath.”

Mollie picked her things up again.

“If you mean your corviknight, it’s still healing.”

“What?”

“It got hurt. Bad.”

Amethio, frustrated beyond belief, slipped.

“Damn it all.”

“Wow,” Friede said, evidently surprised by this turn of events that wasn’t on his bingo card for the day, “so Mr. Prim-and-Proper can swear.”

“Fuck off.”

He didn’t flinch. Neither of them did.

“Two in a row! My lucky day.”

“Arceus on a stick,” Amethio bemoaned, addressing Mollie, “is he always that insufferable?”

“You have no idea.”

Friede looked faux wounded, more amused than anything.

“Et tu, Brutus?”

“Canis canem edit, Friede,” she riposted, unblinking. Friede was left floundering at this.

“Uh, carpe diem?”

“You poor soul.”

Amethio threw his hands up in the air, giving up again. The fabric of his shirt rubbed against his burn wounds, exacerbating the pain that was already excruciating by itself when at rest, but Amethio found he was too aggravated to care. “Nevermind, you’re just as bad as him, uh… whatever your name is.”

“It’s Mollie.”

“And I’m Friede.”

“I already know who you are, Friede.”

“Just making sure.”

“Seriously…”

They lapsed into a meaningful silence. Amethio couldn’t handle it.

“What now.”

Mollie shrugged, indifferent, as she wrote something else down. Amethio hated admitting he was growing curious again. At that point, he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the devil leading him into temptation. “Now you rest until you get better,” she said, her intonation indicating that hadn’t quite been a suggestion.

“And how long will that be?”

“For your burns, one week; for your sprained ankle, maybe three.”

Amethio balked, his composure gone.

“Three weeks?”

“At most.”

Amethio wanted to feel angry about this, but resignation got to him first.

“Lucky me.”

“Your sarcastic remark has been duly noted.”

Mollie headed for the door.

“I’ll check on Goliath. Try not to kill each other or something.”

“Sure,” Friede said.

“Don’t destroy anything, either.”

“Mollie,” he gasped, hand to his chest, theatrics set in motion, “how could you think so low of me.”

“I wouldn’t if you ever met me halfway.”

“Ow.”

“Keep an eye on him.” She gestured towards Amethio with the tip of her pen again, waving it in a twist for a second or two. Amethio seethed, feeling like a chair in the corner. “Make sure he doesn’t try to jump out a window or something.”

“‘He’ is right here.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Friede said, ignoring him.

“I’m sure you will.”

“Ugh.”

And she was gone.

Having taken her leave, Mollie left them alone. Him and Friede. Friede and him. Alone. Together. But alone. And yet together. Amethio had probably wished for silence subconsciously at some point, not that he could remember, and the monkey paw had just now curled its way into the curse of the millennium. The universe mocked him once more, as it tended to do on a daily basis, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Amethio counted his blessings that, at the very least, things were quiet again.

“So…”

Oh, goddammit.

“Don’t.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t try to make small talk,” Amethio said, bordering a plea.

“Well, we’ll be stuck together in this room for about three weeks.” Friede began to pace about, not really having anything else to do. Amethio carefully followed his movements with his gaze, not like a predator sizing his prey but very much the opposite. Friede didn’t really mind. The rules were set. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“Have you ever won one of those against me?”

“No, but I’ve never lost one either.”

It clicked.

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” Friede said, realizing what that meant and allowing himself to smile about it. “We’ve never finished a pokémon battle, have we?”

“Not at all.”

“… You know, the battlefield’s still there—”

“No.”

Friede deflated.

“Aw, c’mon, you haven’t even considered it.”

“That would involve me interacting with you for longer than necessary.”

“I mean, we’re interacting right now.”

“Regrettably.”

“That’d hurt my feelings if it came from anyone else other than a brooding teenager.”

Amethio gawked, horrified.

“I am twenty-six.”

Friede cracked up, doubling over with laughter at what he perceived to be a joke. Amethio stared, one eyebrow pointedly raised. When his expression didn’t change, when he didn’t drop the façade, Friede realized he meant it. “… You serious?”

“I don’t look or sound like a teenager,” Amethio growled out through gritted teeth.

He received no response.

“What?”

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but…”

“I have a job!”

Friede hemmed.

“Well, they have loosened the child labor laws recently.”

“What.”

“The children yearn for the mines, Amethio.”

“Take it back, all of it.”

“You do have a baby face. Sorry to break it to you.”

“I’m—”

“I lied, actually, I’m not sorry at all. This fills me with childish glee.”

Amethio shook with unbridled rage, staring at Friede with murderous intent, but his stature and lack of intimidating features made him look, in Friede’s eyes, like a newborn lillipup. “If you say anything else on this topic,” he threatened, very serious about it, “I will hop on one leg and kill you.”

“I’m sure you will, bud.”

“Just you wait until I’m healed.”

“Trembling in my boots.”

“You better be.”

Amethio was ready to contrive a blistering retort that would destroy Friede emotionally until he replayed his previous words in his mind and something stuck out to him, something he should’ve noticed earlier but was too distracted to ruminate on. “Wait.”

“What?”

“You said something earlier…”

Friede nodded.

“I said lots of things,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“No, you mentioned—” Amethio struggled to find the words. “What do you mean, ‘stuck together’?”

“Oh, that?”

“Yes, that.”

The all-knowing smirk that crept to Friede’s lips could only mean bad things, Amethio was very sure of it. When Friede dropped the truth onto him like a sack of concrete, he realized his ability to see through this man was more of a curse than a blessing. “Whose room do you think this is?”

“Oh, Arceus.”

“Arceus can’t hear you now.”

Amethio sighed, having sealed his fate and his future casket.

“I know.”

And he did, because he never hit the floor.

Chapter Text

Everything felt distant and hazy yet so inextricably close all the same, a mere hair’s breadth away from his quavering fingertips and frayed expectations. It, at some point, began to teeter that fine line between familiarity and discomfiture, even if never standing perfectly in between— sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. There was something comforting about these events in a way that couldn’t be outlined or dismissed out of hand. Maybe he should’ve known better. Did it matter, really? They’d reached a point of no return, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Change was always welcome. To a point. ‘It builds character,’ his father said once, the words having stuck, ‘your mother used to say that a lot.’ And that would inevitably leave him ruminating for days; not a downward spiral, not a forest fire, but a controlled burn that he could steer to his heart’s content until it inevitably consumed its way out of his grasp. Surely it wasn’t his fault, or theirs, or anyone’s at all. Such things couldn’t quite be helped. He was often okay with that, though that tended to vary depending on his mood, or when he was feeling rather whimsical about things in general. There was something soothing to be found in an adage, unexplainable as this feeling may come across to the uninitiated. Again, it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps that’s what he’d convinced himself, and perhaps there was a way out of this hole, but he wasn’t confident enough to press further, like a coward. Hell, some days he’d just dig deeper and deeper.

And then he’d drown.

And drown.

Once the darkness was within sight, he could begin to feel alive again.

For now, the sunlight would suffice.

“Alright, give me another one,” she told him, not quite a command and not quite a question, her countenance spelling defiance, brows pointedly furrowed to match her crossed arms. He loved that about her—that brazen confidence was contagious in the most electrifying of senses. “That entry was rigged.”

That earned her a chuckle.

“Was not.”

“It so was! Chandelure is a free space anyway. Nobody cares about Chandelure. C’mon, try me again.”

He thought about it.

“Okay, you win this round, I give in.”

She whooped, victorious.

“Ha, outwitted.”

“It’s called ‘pity’.”

“You’re floundering for excuses.”

“I’m not— you can’t just—” he coughed, cornered, “ahem, anyway, let’s do this.”

“I’m winning this time, just you wait.”

He leant closer.

“Bet.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, mischievously, giving him a glimpse of that more competitive side that she was forced to hide under the guise of elegance and virtue and modesty—always prim and proper with them, a true lady through and through, but forever his pain in the ass; she was never shy about showing that more obstinate side of hers through rain and hail and fire, always making her opinions clear. She knew he wouldn’t tattle about it; not that he would ever want to. Why should he? Just because the world wanted to see them fail? Not a chance. After all, they had more important things to worry about, such as the ill-gotten gains of this personal war of theirs. He’d known since day one her family came from old money; it wasn’t a mystery or a shock. It could be concomitantly presumed that simply ascertaining them as ‘old money’ might be underselling it, too, for the Pommeroies were one of the oldest standing noble houses. Their influence spanned multiple regions, their history was rich and vast, and their members were incredibly snobby about it. As the monarchy had been dissolved in Kalos in the 18th century, their title as a noble house had become nothing more than that—a title. Of course, that did not mean their political and social sway through centuries of accumulated wealth could be easily dismissed. They were known for their numerous charities and the occasional act of philanthropy. He’d heard from the more skeptical neighbors surrounding the area that those generous fronts were how the elders of the family masked their more shady dealings like offshore accounts and unethical lobbying, but never really cared to dig that deep. That was not his job, he wasn’t a journalist; far from it, in fact. It didn’t matter anyway, because she wasn’t like them. She was a Pommeroie by birth, yes, but she wasn’t a Pommeroie by nature or temperament.

The disdain for her family’s business, in fact, was palpable from where he stood.

It was understandable.

“Oh,” she said, beaming, “I am betting.”

Now that piqued his curiosity.

“And what are you putting on the line, Miss Fancy Pants?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He acquiesced, accepting this as a reasonable compromise. They could make a game out of it. They always did. “Okay, okay,” he told her, confident that she would hold her end of the bargain despite the mistrust that she was often gratuitously and unnecessarily afforded, “but I’m holding you up to it.”

“Feel free.”

Picking up his Pokédex from its resting place atop his lap, cross-legged and purposefully laggard as the verdant grass beneath gently grazed his fingertips whenever his hands lay at rest, he tapped at an entry at random with closed eyes and began the distinctive narration, clearing his throat and making a voice, Galarian accent included, the façade and masquerades never-ending. It was one of the many arrows in his quiver, the most useless of talents he liked to boast about. He got by okay with the harrowing knowledge that he could no longer unlearn it. Somehow his friend, the one he shared any and all secrets with, hadn’t even been aware of it until now. He hadn’t realized until they’d reached the point of no return. There was a sort of beauty to it all, the unshakable, inarguable fact that they could always discover something new about each other no matter how much time was spent together, no matter how much they shared and how much they accidentally let slip past the sharp, uninviting palisades that composed their social pretenses. Perhaps that was the allure of a true friendship. How odd, how intriguing, how fascinating. He wanted to know more.

It was only natural.

“This Pokémon has been pro—”

She raised a hand.

“Stop, stop.”

He deflated, the momentum officially gone. “What is it now? Giving up?”

“Why are you… speaking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to sell me a timeshare, or a vacuum cleaner.”

“It’s called theatrics.”

And she stared.

“C’mon,” he said, feeling judged, “aren’t you the least bit amused?”

Silence.

“… A little.”

“Success!”

“Continue the charade, Dr. Seuss.”

“That makes me sound awesome and therefore doesn’t count as an insult.”

And there it was again— that smile he’d long fallen in love with; bottled sunshine, pure, undistilled serenity. He wasn’t consistently witty, nor was he always funny, but when a joke landed she would bend and yield and laugh about it. He considered that a victory. “Ahem! ‘This Pokémon has been protected by people since long ago.’ Speak now or forever hold your peace, darling.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“It’s one of my many charms.”

“I’m sure you’d think that.”

“Hey.”

She thought about it, squinting.

“Is it… Sinistea?”

“Wrong answer! You lose.”

“Wait, no— wait, wait— I change my mind!”

“Too bad, sweetpea, that’s not how the cookie crumbles anymore.”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“I just did.”

“You’re so cruel, Professor!”

“Well—”

“Alright, fine, I will accept my loss with grace and candor,” she said, her current expression bearing boundless mirth that betrayed her measured words, “and thus shall not place a millennium long curse upon your bloodline.”

“… How generous.”

“I know, I am the definition of poise.”

“Uncannily so.”

The exchange ebbed and died down like the newborn embers of a wasted campfire before something clicked. One would think it would’ve happened sooner, but they were getting there all the same. “Hey,” he said as the other shoe finally dropped, “I just realized you lost.”

“Thank you, I haven’t at all noticed.”

“You did put something on the line, right? You told me you did.”

She tittered, then.

“And you believed me?” That was when he spotted it again, that dangerous glint that sent shivers down his spine through a mere glance. It was like her stare bore into his soul. He let it happen. “You know how the saying goes, my dear Professor: ‘fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me’.”

“And if you fool me three times?”

“Get well.”

“Hurtful.”

“Hah.”

“You haven’t fooled me twice, though.”

“Oh, have I not?”

A quirked brow, the faintest hint of amusement, something firmly set amidst the two of them—not quite a boundary, not quite a rule, but something in between all the same; these sensations and feelings and emotions that swirled together into an amalgam couldn’t be aptly named or described in a way that was comprehensible. He wasn’t really going to try, either. Perhaps the allure of any particular, otherworldly phenomenon at any given time was in its mystifying, undecipherable nature. From the moment he accepted the internship, it became his duty and mission to uncover and catalog any and all pokémon-related circumstances which remained unseen and undiscovered, that much was true, and there was a certain pull to the job, but he was always bound to enjoy a good mystery, like a hot drink for the soul. Pure bliss, through and through, all the way until the heat death of the universe and beyond its event horizon, even. He hadn’t felt that in quite a while, not since his first personal discovery involving a morpeko and a magnet. He hated talking about it. Somehow, though, she always goaded him into telling more stories, each one more ridiculous than the last.

He always wondered why he caved, why he let himself be pushed around this way, then she would smile and laugh and prod and ask even more questions, sounding as magnificent and intoxicatingly saccharine as the first beams of sunlight that crept beyond the cloudy skies upon the daybreak, and he’d remember all over again. He hated admitting that was his biggest weakness, but he never learned to let it go. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to.

And was that wrong of him?

“Nope,” he said, “nothing was on the table before then, so you have only lied once.”

She leant forth.

“Too bad, because I lied about lying.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Professor. Keep that in mind.”

“Oh.”

“And…”

She rose to her feet, always so elegant and graceful in her movements, as if dancing with every step and every breath and every word—the most sophisticated prima ballerina, the most beautiful swan, the most skilled concertmaster. He knew he was being biased in his point of view, but who wasn’t when it came to their loved ones? Transfixed, he too jumped up, twice as fast and half as dignified, almost losing his footing in the process. Generously choosing not to mention the blunder, she removed one of her silk gloves, revealing a glimmering, delicate amethyst ring gingerly placed upon her index finger. With a smile and a steady hand, she removed it—always, always so careful and precise—before placing it upon his open palm. He could only stare at this masterful piece of jewelry that he couldn’t in a million years afford, gawping.

“Whoa,” he breathed.

She chuckled at that, their bodies impossibly close. “… And a promise is a promise.”

“I’m… not sure what to say.”

“Then don’t.”

“Annie, I’m—”

“Sshh.”

Somehow, she inched closer yet.

“Friede…”

He, too, found himself leaning down, closing the gap between them.

“Friede, c’mon.”

Something beckoned him, drawing him in, and he could no longer tell what it was. A voice deep in the back of his mind, a hand on his shoulder, something of a pull, something of a call. Their faces were inches apart at that point, and he could sense her breath— it smelled of bubblegum. He couldn’t detect it, not anymore, but he remembered. She always reminded him of a field of flowers from afar, covered in floral perfume from head to toe. She’d once confessed, when prompted, that she was forced to. It was what prim and proper ladies did: they wore sickeningly sweet fragrances and frilly dresses and expensive purses and just pretended they liked it. In reality, the thought of dolling herself up for the elites’ amusement was dreadful. She hated the perfumes even more. It was always lavender, or vanilla, or something so artificial and unholy it couldn’t be distinguished by scent alone.

“Friede.”

He wondered what she smelled like under all that perfume.

He wanted to know.

“Friede!”

“Augh!”

Friede startled awake once something poked his neck, spine going ramrod straight as he pawed at his face in a failed attempt at rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “I’m up, I’m up— I was never asleep,” he said, hoping to pass it off as a mistake and failing even harder at that, “whoever told you that is a liar.”

Mollie did not budge, austere.

“I have eyes.”

“No, you don’t, reality is an illusion.”

She sighed.

“You did the thing again.”

“The ‘thing’?”

“Talking in your sleep.”

Friede blinked and then blinked again, processing any and all information spoonfed to his half-conscious brain at a laggard pace, and only at the fourth second spent in the withering silence that loomed above them like a swaying, beckoning noose did the fact settle. It was rare for him to be caught red-handed like this; usually there was a sort of subtlety and secrecy to his most embarrassing, most secret habits and oddities. It had been his fault anyway. He was only now coming to realize he’d fallen asleep at the meeting table while doing calculations and routing plans. If the wooden table and chairs hadn’t given it away, the fact that his back hurt like hell from the lack of a proper resting position eventually would; it was funny, really, how at only twenty-seven years of age he felt like an utter grandpa in terms of posture. It seemed like one night of bad sleep could ruin his whole day. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Thankfully, out of all the crew members that did not involve the children and pokémon, Mollie was the least likely out of everyone else to make fun of him for it. She was professional and serious for the most part, occasionally showing those she loved the faintest glimpse of a softer side. Friede liked to think himself in that group. It wouldn’t be out of the question anyway.

He coughed, catching himself.

“Ah.”

“It’s been happening a lot lately,” Mollie said, sounding concerned, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, did you need something?”

Mollie seemed hesitant to switch topics, but did so for his sake anyway. Friede could be nothing but thankful for her commitment to her duties when everyone else would pester him until he caved. “Murdock asked if you could help him prepare lunch. Something about a promise.”

‘A promise is a promise.’

Right.

“Oh, I see.”

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Mollie told him.

“Hm?”

“Liko and Roy can go in your stead.”

“But I said I would—”

“You should go back and rest, did you even sleep?”

“I did.”

“Let me rephrase this: did you sleep for at least four hours?”

He averted his gaze.

“Irrelevant.”

“Hopeless, all of you.”

Mollie snuck a peek over Friede’s shoulder. Her cynical sights fell upon an open notebook filled with what seemed like senseless scribbles and doodles that she couldn’t make heads or tails of atop actual words and the occasional complex calculation; some things were recognizable, like the mathematics needed for the ship’s inner workings that Orla occasionally showed her in a bout of infodumping, and others were just pure lunacy. Everything about this was utterly undecipherable and if she suddenly decided she did want to decode it she wouldn’t know where to begin. Friede was too late in haphazardly hiding his mad ramblings as he closed the notebook with a bit more force than intended. Unfortunately for Friede and Mollie alike, she had seen enough.

“What is that?”

He shrugged.

“I’unno, I got bored.”

“Seriously.”

“They were supposed to be coordinates, alright? It’s work.”

Mollie stared.

“Don’t give me that look.”

She stared harder.

Friede shrunk under her gaze like a child caught stealing cookies at midnight. He hated Mollie’s uncanny ability to make him feel guilty over nothing and everything all at once. She often used this to her advantage— mostly during board games, like a true cheater. “… Your disapproval’s been duly noted.”

Mollie remained impassive.

“Go to sleep.”

Friede leapt to his feet.

“I should go help Murdock now, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Fri—”

“Ta-ta!”

And away he went.

Friede was sure the exhaustion was getting to him, worming through his once impenetrable willpower bit by bit, chipping away at every barrier and barricade put up, like a parasite in the making; it was only fair to reap what he sowed by choosing the most uncomfortable sleeping position known to man on the most uncomfortable furniture they had available. Hell, even sleeping standing up like a wild copperajah would’ve been preferable, and his spine would’ve thanked him for it—small mercies for the body and soul. Friede ruefully filed that thought away with the others. It wasn’t his first rodeo in the town of bad decisions, and, despite what he told himself and what others told him, it wouldn’t be his last either. Friede had a feeling he would make a ton of mistakes on his way to a better lifestyle. That was fine by him. With a restless mind and a tired figure that tugged him to and fro in every which way in the same manner of a ragdoll being fought over by two stubborn toddlers, Friede turned to the left, then headed straight ahead, until he found himself entering the kitchen, ignoring every cell and atom screaming for proper rest. Murdock, unsurprisingly, was already there, pots and pans and utensils of all kinds scattered about as he worked. He was a messy cook, but always did his due diligence in cleaning everything up accordingly, often with help from the others as their chores collided. Murdock perked up as the door opened. That happiness was rather short-lived.

“There you… are…”

Silence.

“What?”

“Man, you don’t look well.”

“Thanks for that,” Friede sarcastically quipped. He’d expected Murdock to notice his current disheveled state, and he’d expected him to comment on it. Still, something about this whole thing didn’t sit right. He proceeded to change the subject with the subtlety of ten consecutive car crashes. “What are you making and how can I help?”

Murdock recalled the task at hand.

“Uh, lasagna.”

“Fuck, your lasagna rocks.”

That earned Friede an amused chuckle that bore the slightest twinge of annoyance. “You’re lucky the kids aren’t around.”

“Like you’d let them near any sharp implements at all.”

“I like being careful.”

“Of course.”

Friede hummed.

“In any case, you know I wouldn’t swear near the children.”

“I know you wouldn’t.”

“Yep.”

“Anyway, can you boil the pasta for me?”

“Can do.”

Friede was quick on his feet, gathering ingredients and utensils as he went. He’d gotten used to the chaotic pace of the kitchen and knew the placing of each appliance by heart; nobody ever moved them from their rightful place for that reason alone. Occasionally Murdock would have two people helping at once, but never more than that. The last oven fire only proved the whole crew couldn’t be trusted to work as a team, and the kitchen was far too cramped to fit four to five adults comfortably. Three was the maximum they could work with. Dropping the largest pot they had on the oven and gingerly, systematically placing the lasagna sheets inside, Friede twisted the knob until it had reached an acceptable degree of heat and let it simmer. They’d both been operating under complete and utter silence up until that point. When Murdock spoke again, Friede was shocked to find he had an actual complaint rather than a quip suited for small talk.

“I don’t trust him.”

Friede blinked, confused by this. Murdock’s expression spelled contempt.

“Huh?”

“Amethio. I don’t trust him.”

A pause.

“I know.”

“Do you trust him?”

Caught off-guard, Friede halted in his steps.

“Why’s that matter?”

“Because you’re our leader.”

“Technically speaking, Cap is the leader.”

“Technically speaking,” Murdock replied, sounding like he was at the end of his rope when faced with Friede’s blasé, detached commentary, something that was so utterly charming yet so utterly infuriating depending on the situation, “Cap isn’t here right now, nor can he talk.”

Friede shook his head.

“If Cap were here,” he said, “he’d be real upset about this slander.”

“Friede…”

“He talks plenty. Oh, the conversations we’ve had.”

“Friede.”

Silence.

“Do you trust him?”

He sighed, cornered.

“Of course not, Murdock,” Friede concluded at last, “why would I?”

“… Sorry.”

“What brought this on?”

“Just thinking.”

Friede found the thread and tugged at it.

“Is that all?”

And Murdock, naturally, caved. Friede hated doing it, but sometimes he felt the need to know the reasoning behind his companions’ actions. Perhaps it was just his nature as the leader, or perhaps it was his detrimental curiosity at play. Did it matter? “I just think we all should be feeling a little uneasy about this arrangement.”

“I never said otherwise.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… you know how I am.”

“I do.”

Murdock looked sheepish.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I guess I’m just… just…”

“Skeptical?”

“I was going to stay stressed.”

“You should relax before you develop a stomach ulcer.”

Murdock threw him an odd look.

“… Stomach ulcer?”

“It happens.”

A pause.

“I’ll trust you on this one.”

“I’m sorry it had to come to this,” joked Friede, “you’re entitled to financial compensation.”

Murdock, despite knowing what was coming, cracked up at that. Friede did too at first, before his humor waned and he grew contemplative again. Feeling the need to busy his hands and not wanting to fidget, he picked up a dirty knife and began polishing it instead. “Listen,” he told Murdock, “I don’t trust Amethio as far as Cap can Thunder Punch him.”

“I feel a ‘but’ incoming.”

Observant.

“… It would’ve been cruel to leave him there, right?”

Murdock fell silent for a moment.

“It would have, yes.”

“Yeah…”

And they lapsed into a thick quietude once more.

“I guess he did save them, right?” Friede nodded, remembering the unfolding circumstances that led them to this point. Murdock knew Friede wasn’t one to lie—not about this, at least; there was conviction in his words, and perhaps a twinge of confusion, but true sincerity couldn’t be faked. “Who would’ve thought.”

“Took me by surprise too.”

“You’d think those Explorers would be all about…”

“Selfishness?”

“Yeah.”

Friede put the knife down, his restlessness ebbing. “You were going to say something else,” he noted, always so astute. Murdock averted his gaze.

“No, no, I’m with you.”

“Did you forget the word for selfishness? What were you about to say?”

A pause.

“… Reverse generosity.”

“Reverse generosity,” Friede echoed, baffled.

“Don’t do this to me.”

“That’s going on the bulletin board, congratulations.”

“I am begging you not to.”

“That ship has sailed.”

“Un-sail it.”

“Who do you think I am, Celebi?”

Murdock sighed.

“At least make it anonymous this time.”

“You’re the only one who says things like ‘reverse generosity’ and ‘one finger fork’.”

Murdock despaired.

“I forgot, okay, am I not allowed to forget words now?”

“You’re a chef, how do you forget the word ‘knife’!” Friede argued back, completely and utterly shocked that they were even having this conversation in the first place. He wasn’t one to commit linguistic blunders. That was Murdock’s job. “That’s the most basic chef utensil ever!”

“When you get to my age you’ll know the struggle.”

“C’mon, man,” Friede said, “you’re not that much older than me.”

“Still older.”

“Also, thirty-four isn’t old.”

“I feel old.”

“Seek therapy.”

That was when, seemingly breaking the pace of their back-and-forth through his silence alone, Murdock laughed heartily, shaking his head as he realized he’d once again fallen into their usual bickerings without even giving it a second thought. “I missed this,” he told Friede, sounding wistful.

“‘This’?”

“Y’know, the banter and stuff. It’s fun.”

It was.

“Yeah,” Friede said, “it’s been a while since we’ve cooked together, hasn’t it?”

“Mm-hm.”

As the mantle of silence inevitably descended upon them once more, the duo resumed their work. Murdock, naturally, led and gave orders. Friede knew he was there to help and occasionally set something on fire by complete accident. The melody of this affair had been finely tuned and practiced to perfection, and each party knew their place in this waltz. Friede caught a glimpse of Murdock’s countenance for the briefest of seconds, and he could swear it seemed like he wanted to say something; it hadn’t been stated outright, but Friede was good enough at reading his friend’s emotions that such things weren’t needed. Still, Murdock abstained from making any comments whatsoever at that point in time, which was appreciated. Friede thought about breaking the silence, either through banter or a heartfelt exchange, but something about the idea felt wrong and out of place. It wasn’t the time, he reminded himself, allowing his mind to wander to worse scenarios. In any case, the lasagna wouldn’t make itself. As the silence persisted, Murdock finally spoke up.

“What is it?”

Friede blinked, confused.

“Huh?”

“Looks like you have something on your mind.”

He stared.

“Why do you guys do this.”

“Do what?”

“Y’know,” Friede said, waving a ladle about lackadaisically, “assume I’m thinking about stuff whenever I’m not talking.”

Murdock seemed astounded. “Because that’s what everyone does.”

That gave Friede pause.

“Is it?”

“It’s called introspection.”

“… Huh.”

“Do you… not do that?”

“Not really.”

“I’m afraid to ask, but what do you do?”

“My brain kind of makes a continuous internet dial-up noise until I open my mouth again.”

“Really?”

“No, I’m messing with you.”

“Oh.”

“Or am I?”

“Are you really going to ‘the boy who cried zoroark’ me?”

“It’s not ‘the boy who cried zoroark’ if you choose to believe me every time,” Friede told him.

“That’s not what you should be taking away from that fable.”

“Hey, what happened to ‘death of the author’?”

“That’s not…”

Murdock sighed.

“Sure.”

“You understand.”

“I’m really trying.”

“Your efforts are appreciated.”

“Well,” Murdock concluded, “I’m glad we’re choosing to learn nothing from anything ever.”

“Right on!”

“Could you pass me that pan?”

Friede did.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Uh,” Murdock said, “where are the kids?”

It was just then that Friede realized he had seen neither hide nor hair from Roy and Liko since the day before, since they brought Amethio back to the Brave Asagi, back when they’d been dealing with more pressing matters. If he knew one thing about children in general from personal experience, it was that there was worry to be expressed when things grew far too silent. Dot herself wasn’t a concern; she spent most of her time locked inside her own room, tinkering away with her machines and apps and other things that kept her occupied. The other two, however, were troublemakers through and through. Liko seemed to find herself in stressing situations more often than not, like a magnet for danger. Roy, reckless as he was, chose to actively seek thrills that would get him killed otherwise. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. The adults had long come to the conclusion that they would need constant supervision if the Rising Volt Tacklers wanted to keep both kids alive and whole. Friede wasn’t sure how he felt about being placed in a fatherly role all of a sudden.

“I’m… not sure, actually,” Friede said, only now realizing nothing had blown up yet. “You want me to ask Orla?”

Murdock hummed, unsure.

“I think she’s busy.”

“True, that.”

“Hm.”

“Are you worried about them?”

“Well, with everything that’s happened…”

“I wouldn’t fret over it. They have pokémon by their side. And us adults. But mostly pokémon. Because we can’t breathe fire.”

“I’m glad.”

“Is it because of the—”

“A little.”

“I see.”

A pause.

“You think he’ll try to steal the pendant again?”

Friede shrugged.

“I don’t see how.”

“It’s a valid concern; it’s not like he’s locked in that room, you know.”

“Murdock, trust me when I say that if Amethio somehow manages to steal the pendant while covered in burns and with a sprained ankle,” Friede told him, rather serious in his expression and timbre alike, “I think we should let him have it. I’d give him the ship and my life savings while we’re at it.”

“You have life savings?”

“Emotional damage.”

Silence.

“He won’t do it.”

“How do you know?” Murdock pressed.

“I’ll keep him in check until he’s healed, I promise you—”

“Friede.”

“—and a promise is a promise.”

Murdock thought about it. He could only come to one conclusion. “… You know, you say that a lot.”

“Do I?”

“You do, have you never noticed?”

Friede checked the sheets again. They were perfectly moist and soggy; it was time to take them out of the pot. He twisted the wrong knob without thinking. “I guess it’s sort of second nature to me, like saying the word ‘the’. You don’t notice you’re doing it until someone points it out.”

“Of course.”

And there it was again, the intoxicating silence that kept them bound and tied, at least until one of them spoke again. It didn’t take long this time around. “Well,” Murdock said, hesitant to acquiesce but eager to move on from this topic as a whole, “you do always keep your promises.”

Friede nodded.

“Right.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he didn’t.