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Not without reason, Althea hated the piano.
She hated the way the keys felt under her fingers, the cold weight of the instrument, the endless lessons her parents dragged her to, the metronome that ticked like some cruel clock counting down to a future she didn’t want. The hours spent bent over the keys while her teacher, this stern old woman with glasses like twin magnifying glasses, would tap manicured nails against the music stand, telling her to feel the music, to breathe the music, as if that would magically make her care about the stilted notes of some forgotten composer like Scharwenka or Szymanowski, whose names she could barely pronounce, let alone play with any real passion.
But there was one thing—or rather, one Pokémon—that made it tolerable, made it more than tolerable, made it... peaceful. And that was Abra.
She had found him, or maybe he had found her, on one of those endless, sticky summer afternoons when the Kricketune sang so loud it felt like the world was vibrating. She was sitting by the piano, staring blankly at the sheet music in front of her, when she felt this warmth beside her, a gentle weight in front of her leg. It was an Abra, curled up in a tight little ball, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic slumber.
She'd heard about Abra, of course: they spent most of their time (eighteen hours, she'd read) sleeping, and they teleported away often in the blink of an eye at the slightest disturbance. But this one didn’t seem to mind the music, or her clumsy fingers fumbling over the keys. He just slept, his breathing slow and steady, so steady that it seemed to sync with the rhythm of the music, and suddenly, for the first time in her life, Althea didn’t mind the piano so much.
Althea began practicing more, not because she wanted to get better or because her parents pushed her, but because she liked the way Abra would curl up beside the bench, how his presence seemed to smooth out the jagged edges of her frustration. When she played, he would sometimes twitch his ears or stretch out a limb in his sleep, but mostly, he just rested. It was like his quiet contentment seeped into her, made the music less of a burden. No matter how much she stumbled or hit the wrong notes, he never stirred.
As the years went by, they grew up together, Althea and Abra. Her parents were always too busy with work to notice the change, to realize that Althea only played when Abra was there, that she practiced less for the sake of improvement and more because it was their time—hers and Abra’s. The old composers grew on her, their unfamiliar melodies becoming a sort of secret language between her and her partner. She found herself drawn to the melancholic beauty of people like Scharwenka, people nobody had ever heard of unless they were stuck in some dusty conservatory, but whose music felt like it was meant for those quiet moments shared with someone who understood without needing to speak.
When Althea turned fourteen, she decided it was time she took on the Gym Challenge. It wasn’t something she had thought about much before—her life had been wrapped up in school, piano, and the quiet companionship of Abra—but now, she wanted to see the world, to stretch her legs, to do something more than sit at a piano bench. And she wanted Abra by her side, not as a passive listener but as her partner, her teammate.
Abra, of course, didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He still slept for most of the day, only waking up long enough to eat or to teleport short distances when his human was too tired from walking. But when Althea had asked him one late summer afternoon, not unlike the afternoon when they had first met, if he’d come along permanently, he had opened one eye, yawned, then jumped into his human's arms, his way of saying “yes” without saying anything at all.
They set off on their journey together, Abra floating beside Althea or just behind her with that effortless, dreamlike grace that seemed to come so naturally to him. He wasn’t much of a battler at first—he didn’t know any offensive moves, and most of the time, he would just teleport away from danger, more interested in finding a quiet place to nap than in fighting. But Althea didn’t mind. More Pokémon joined them and they trained together, and little by little, Abra began to grow stronger, finally evolving into Kadabra. Still, he never lost that sleepy, tranquil demeanor.
Time passed, and the Gym Challenge took them across regions, through forests and mountains, across rivers and deserts. Althea grew stronger, more confident, her team expanding with new friends and new bonds. But no matter how many battles they fought, no matter how far they traveled, there was always one constant: every night, when they set up camp or found a room in a Pokémon Center, Abra—Kadabra now—would float into bed, his body twitching lazily as he drifted off into sleep, always there to remind Althea that no matter how far they went, it was always important to rest.
It was late autumn when Althea found herself on Cinnabar Island. The island’s Gym had been closed for years, the volcano that once loomed over the town now a quiet, ominous presence, its slopes covered in ash and cooled lava. Tonight, the Pokémon Center was quiet, too, almost empty, save for a few trainers passing through on their way to other challenges. Althea didn’t mind the quiet: it had been a long journey, and she was grateful for the chance to rest.
As she walked through the Pokémon Center, something caught her eye: an old, abandoned piano, tucked away in a corner of the lobby. It was dusty, the wood chipped and worn from years of neglect, but the sight of it stirred something in her. She hadn’t played in months, not since she had visited home, and for a moment, she hesitated, unsure if she even remembered how. But then, almost without thinking, she sat down on the bench, her fingers brushing lightly over the keys.
At first, she played tentatively, the notes soft and hesitant (quite surprised that the piano was tuned despite its state), the years of disuse making her fingers clumsy. But as she continued, something shifted. The old familiarity returned, muscle memory guiding her hands as she began to play one of the pieces she had learned long ago, something by Zarebski, one of the lesser-known Romantics her teacher had insisted on, and whose works she liked more than any other she had been taught. The melody was delicate, melancholic, and as she played, she felt the same calm wash over her that she had felt all those years ago, sitting at her piano with Abra napping serenely beside her.
She didn’t notice right away, but Kadabra had woken up from his spot across the lobby on a cushioned chair. He was sitting up now, his eyes half-closed, listening intently as the music filled the empty space, his tail curling and uncurling in slow, measured movements, like a metronome keeping time with the music.
Althea smiled as she glanced over at her partner. For a moment, it was like they were back home, back in that sunlit room with the Kricketune singing outside, just the two of them and the music. She kept playing, the notes flowing more easily now, her fingers dancing across the keys with a grace she hadn't thought herself ever capable of employing in the manner it presented itself now.
Once the last note reverbrated in the air, Althea let her hands rest in her lap, her heart full and calm. Kadabra was watching her, his eyes warm and half-lidded, his posture relaxed. He didn’t need to say anything; he never did. Althea knew what he was thinking, what he had always felt: the music was theirs, had always been theirs, even when they were out battling or traveling or meeting new people and Pokémon. Music was their true connection, something deeper than any bond formed in battle or shared victories. It was always music, would always be music. Only music.