Work Text:
“This is ridiculous,” Cheren grouses, “we really ought to go to the Pokémon Center, it is not nearly warm enough at night to—”
But Hilda isn’t listening, of course; she never is, never has, never will. No, she’s pointing at the pitch-black sky overhead (not even a tent she brought on her journey, just sleeping bags), and Cheren follows the tan line of her arm down to her face, to her wide grin, to the way her teeth flash white and blurry (he’s not wearing his glasses) like the stars as she says: “Oh, but it’s so beautiful, isn’t it?”