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Ash sat by the window, staring blankly out into the winter-grey sky.
The glass was cold against his forehead, the chill seeping through his skin no matter how long he stayed there. Outside, Pallet Town looked the same as it always did, quiet streets, familiar rooftops, the distant line of trees swaying gently in the wind. It felt wrong that the world could look so normal when everything inside him felt anything but.
He had his knees pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them as if he could make himself smaller. Pikachu slept peacefully beside him on the couch, curled into the warm space Ash had made without thinking, the electric mouse Pokémon’s tail resting gently across Ash’s thigh. Its soft breaths were steady, grounding in a way Ash hadn’t realized he needed until now.
He didn’t hear the front door open.
Didn’t hear footsteps.
Didn’t hear Ritchie calling his name.
“Ash?”
The voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Hey, Ash. You listening to me?” Ritchie asked, stepping into the living room.
“Yeah, sorry,” Ash mumbled, blinking and pulling his gaze away from the window. He straightened slightly, embarrassed at nearly being caught drifting so far away.
“Oh, you were listening?” Ritchie said lightly. “Then what did I just say?”
Ash opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at Ritchie for a second too long before looking down at Pikachu instead.
“I thought so,” Ritchie said. The teasing faded. “Ash… are you okay?”
The question landed harder than it should have.
“Wha- yeah! Of course I am,” Ash said too quickly. He untucked his legs and shifted into what he hoped looked like a relaxed position, forcing a wide smile onto his face. It felt stiff, unfamiliar. “Just tired, that’s all.”
Ritchie folded his arms slowly. “Ash Ketchum,” he said, voice firm but not unkind, “don’t you dare lie to me.”
Ash’s jaw tightened.
Ritchie wasn’t angry. Ash knew that. But he also knew Ritchie well enough to recognize that look, the one that meant he’d noticed something was wrong and wasn’t going to let it go easily. That made the tight feeling in Ash’s chest worse.
He didn’t want to talk.
He didn’t want to explain.
He didn’t even fully understand what he was feeling himself.
Ritchie waited, giving him space, just watching him quietly. That patience, normally comforting, felt unbearable right now.
“I just- ” Ash’s face contorted as frustration bubbled over, sharp and sudden. “Richie, just leave me alone for a while!”
The words came out harsher than he meant them to.
Ritchie blinked. “Ash-”
But Ash was already on his feet. He brushed past him, guilt flaring even as his instincts screamed at him to get away. He grabbed his shoes, didn’t bother with a coat, and was out the door before either of them could say anything else.
Ash ran.
He didn’t know where he was going at first, only that he couldn’t stay there, couldn’t sit still with the ache in his chest and the weight pressing down on him. The cold air burned his lungs as he pushed himself harder, his breath fogging in front of him.
By the time he slowed, his legs shaking, the iron gates came into view.
The cemetery.
The cold hit him all at once as he stepped through. The wind cut straight through his clothes, biting into his skin, but he barely noticed. He walked with familiar steps, following the path he’d worn down over the past year, until he reached the grave he already knew was there.
“Hi, Mom,” he whispered, sitting down in front of the headstone.
The stone was cold beneath his fingers.
“It’s December,” he said after a moment. “Almost Christmas.”
His voice wavered.
“And tomorrow… tomorrow it’ll be a year since you…”
The rest of the sentence collapsed into sobs.
Ash bent forward, shoulders shaking as tears spilled down his face, freezing against his cheeks in the winter air.
“Why?” he whispered brokenly. “Why did you have to go? I needed you. I still need you.”
The words tumbled out, tangled and messy.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admitted aloud. “I’m angry, and I’m sad, and sometimes I feel… nothing. And then I feel guilty for that too.”
His hands clenched in the dirt. “I was in Sinnoh. I knew you weren’t well. I should’ve been home. I should’ve-”
“It wasn’t her fault.”
Ash startled as a familiar voice spoke behind him.
Before he could turn, someone sat down beside him and draped a jacket over his shoulders, the warmth immediate and grounding.
“You’re freezing,” Gary said quietly. “Put that on.”
“Gary?” Ash asked hoarsely. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not in Pallet tomorrow,” Gary replied. “So I came tonight. Now take the jacket before you make yourself sick.”
Ash didn’t argue. He pulled it tighter around himself, the warmth sinking into his bones.
“Thanks.”
Gary nodded and said nothing more.
They sat together in silence, the wind rustling through bare branches, the quiet heavy but not uncomfortable. Gary didn’t rush him. He never had.
After a while, Gary placed a hand gently on Ash’s shoulder.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “I’ve been here before. If you ever need to talk… I’m here.”
Ash swallowed. “I know it wasn’t her fault,” he said. “But it feels like it was mine.”
Gary turned toward him. “No. That’s the grief talking. Your mom loved knowing you were out there chasing your dream. She was proud of you, Ash. Always.”
Ash closed his eyes, breathing shakily.
“It just hurts so much.”
Gary nodded. “It always does. It never really stops. You just learn how to carry it.”
He pulled Ash into a firm, steady hug. Ash leaned into it, finally letting himself breathe.
They stayed there for over an hour, sharing stories, small ones, warm ones.
Memories of Delia laughing, cheering them on, scolding them when they deserved it. By the time Ash stood to leave, the ache in his chest hadn’t vanished, but it felt survivable.
Ash hesitated outside his front door.
He half-expected Ritchie to be angry.
He wouldn’t have blamed him. Instead, the door opened to both their Pikachu tumbling toward him in greeting.
“Ash?” Ritchie called from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” Ash replied softly.
Ritchie took one look at his face and crossed the room, pulling him into a hug without a word.
“It’s okay,” Ritchie whispered. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I’m still sorry,” Ash murmured into his shoulder.
“I know,” Ritchie said. “I just wish you’d talk to me instead of shutting me out.”
“I’ll try,” Ash promised quietly.
That night, over dinner, Ritchie asked about Delia. About Christmas. About traditions.
Ash smiled, the memory warming something deep inside him.
“We had one tradition,” he said. “Every Christmas morning when I was little,
Mom would carry me downstairs and hang mistletoe above the door. She’d kiss my cheeks and forehead, play carols, and we’d sing together. When I got older, we’d dance.”
“That sounds perfect,” Ritchie said softly.
On Christmas morning, Ash rolled over and pressed a sleepy kiss to Ritchie’s lips.
“Merry Christmas. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Ritchie whispered.
“Come on. I have a surprise.”
Half-asleep, Ash let himself be led downstairs.
“Close your eyes.”
Ash did.
Ritchie kissed his cheeks. His forehead.
Then his lips.
“You can open them.”
Ash looked up.
Mistletoe.
The breath caught in his throat as tears filled his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Ritchie kissed him again, slow and warm, holding him as Ash finally let himself cry, not in pain alone, but in gratitude too.
It still hurt.
But he wasn’t alone anymore.
And that made all the difference.