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Chapter Text

Deep down in the sewers where the light doesn’t touch, you slosh alongside Lida in ankle-deep water after spending nearly two hours battling a Rogue Mega Barbaracle. 

Chandelure floats behind you both, lighting the way forward, while Staryu calms the treacherous waters up ahead. You feel the weight of a gaze on your back, but keep walking, pulled along by Lida’s firm hold on your hand.

She takes the lead, helping you through the deep water. She laughs sheepishly at your disgruntlement as she helps you up a particularly slippery step, her neatly-manicured fingers pressing into the back of your palm in an encouraging squeeze.

“Why the long face?” She teases, her Staryu bouncing in place at her side.

“I’m spendin’ too much time down here these days,” You grumble, letting her help you up and out of the glimmering water. At least Chandelure seems to like it.

“Maybe we should move our Strategy Meetings down here,” Lida lets go of your hand to abruptly twirl in place; her neat motions kick up sparkles of water that ripple around her as she strikes a pose. “What do you think? I kinda like it!”

“You must be joking.”

“I am joking.” Lida claps you on the back, laughing. “Let’s get out of here.”

You sigh in relief as Lida once again takes your hand, leading you up a steep staircase and back into the late-afternoon light. The city bustles around you both, none-the-wiser, tourists gallivanting through a nearby shopping center while Fletchling flutter between buildings’ ornate facades.

You shake out your heavy, soaking-wet boots. The past few days have felt peaceful yet unnerving to say the least, filled with odd invitations and general radio silence. Vinnie’s call about the Mega Rogues felt strangely relieving, if only because he released you from whatever hell SBC Jacinthe had in store. 

Yet you know that it isn’t over yet. That strong and relentless socialite haunts you the same way Chandelure haunts those sewer’s endless catacombs.

Pink sizzles in the corner of your eye. You twitch.

“Something wrong?” Lida asks you, her thick brows furrowing in concern. She lets go of your hand only to bump her shoulder against yours. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s Jacinthe,” You mutter hastily, furiously scrubbing the back of your neck. This frizzes up the fabric of your turtleneck. “The SBC lady. She’s been followin’ me all day as a damn hologram.”

“Alors, a ‘damn hologram’ is rather rude. I prefer to call it a ‘Jacinthe-o’-gram.’”

Chandelure sputters a frantic flame, Staryu flops onto his face, and Lida shouts, jumps three feet in the air, and lets out a loud series of explicits that would make even Canari wince.

SBC Jacinthe, predictably, hardly reacts—her magenta-pink, holographic form ripples with a static-filled twitch, her pixelated smile growing ever-wider. The bobbing whirls of her hair drift at her sides, casting odd reflections with their pastel glow. 

“Excellent work, my dear.” She clasps her hands together, her long, batting lashes sparkling through the bricks of the adjacent sewer wall. “It seems you’ve finally quelled all of these ‘Rogue Mega Pokémon,’ after only a minor delay. With your prowess, you must attend our lovely tournament. It simply won’t be complete without you!”

“I was plannin’ on goin,’” you return bluntly, “Me an’ Urbain both. Though if you saw what we just did, you’d understand, wouldn’t you? This stuff is way more important.”

“It’s of equal importance,” Jacinthe corrects. “It seems you do not understand what my marvelous tournaments do for this city. You shall see soon, hm?”

Your polite smile twitches. Nothing you say gets through to her. “...Sure. We’ll be there. Just…cool it on the holotech.”

“It’s been a pleasure, my dear!” Jacinthe waves her hands. She’s not gonna cool it on the holotech, is she? “Au revoir!”

She blinks out of existence with a toss of her hair.

You tip your face into your hand. Never have you met someone so baffling and so inherently frustrating. 

“Jeeze,” Lida blurts, seeming to share the sentiment. “What the heck was that—?”

Jacinthe’s strength reverberates through her every step, her confidence and polite expression never faltering—she truly moves at the beat of her own drum. Her penchant for a good challenge is certainly admirable, but you wish she’d go about it a different way.

All you can assume is that she hopes to brush over it, or perhaps ‘make you stronger’ so that Rogue Megas never appear again. You don’t blame her. Hearing pokémon cry out in pain is a reality so heartbreaking it feels difficult to accept.

The memories of those Rogues—their bodies writhing and warped, their tears burning away into gashes of red energy—swirl together in your mind. Your purpose in this city is now much greater than Royale Battles and aimless tourism.

You think Lida feels the same. Her time with Team MZ has changed her in the same way it has changed you. 

When you’d first met her, she’d been worn down yet utterly relentless, her dream to be a dancer twirling at the forefront of her mind. Yet now, as she stands here in silence, you think she hears the echoes of Barbaracle’s cries in her ears as it collapsed to the ground in a heap. 

She’s grown stronger, remarkably so, yet the endless fighting has fixed her feet firmly to the ground.

“Hey,” Lida calls your name, prompting you to turn your head toward her. “How long are you planning to stay in Lumiose?”

You blink. It’s not a question she’s ever asked you before. For all the time you’ve spent with your teammates, sometimes murmuring to each other under blankets in the dead of the night, they’d never asked you why you came to this city. 

“Sometimes I feel like you’ll flutter out of here just like that,” Lidia continues. “I can’t explain it. Like you’re a gust of wind rushing past us…and someday you’ll be gone.”

“...Lida,” You pause uncertainly, unsure of how to respond. “I won’t be leavin’ anytime soon. I can promise you that.”

Lida smiles, her brows pulling up and together. “..That’s a relief. You, Naveen, and Urbain…I think you’re the best friends I’ve ever had.”

“I feel the same.” You take her hand and squeeze it—two little pulses. “So don’t worry, okay?”

Lida nods. She squeezes your hand back. 

You’ve grown stronger. You know you have. Enough so that the strange shadow that follows you in the night now walks close enough that you can catch the glimmer of its neon-green scales. Perhaps then you can soothe the darkness set deep in AZ’s eyes and meet Urbain’s fears with a brilliant, encouraging smile.

Perhaps then you won’t see that desert in your dreams.

“..Why’d you come here?” Lida asks you quietly. Sunlight curls around the back of her head, her dark lashes alight in glimmers of gold. “You, uh, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but…why’d you come to this city? Like Urbain, do you have something you’re looking for?”

Your phone dings.

Lida opens her mouth. You pause awkwardly. Fletchling chitter on a power line high above.

“..Go ahead.” Your teammate shakes her head with a sheepish smile, her hand slipping from yours. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, don’t you? You don’t have to answer my dumb questions.”

“They’re not dumb.” You state firmly. Yet your confidence falters. “I’ll..tell you soon.”

Lida picks at her bangs, staring down at her tapping foot. “..Promise?”

“Promise.”

Lida glances up at you under her lashes, and her lips finally lift into a genuine smile. Your heart feels lighter, thrumming and tapping like a drum. She really does make a person feel like dancing.

Rotom zips out of your pocket, displaying a trio of texts from a familiar number. Each message has been sent a few minutes apart.

I’d like to apologize for the other day. It was rude of me.

You squint and hastily scroll down.

Please visit our headquarters when you have the time. 

I wish to speak with you.

The second time you show up in Hotel Richissime’s ornate, immaculate tourney room feels as dramatic as the first. Though this time you plan on staying a bit longer, lest Jacinthe snap and turn you into one of her maids.

Given Lebanne’s indefinite servitude, it certainly seems like a feasible consequence.

It’s been nearly seven hours since you’d darted out with Urbain to save three Mega Rogues for the thousandth time. Yet nothing in this room has changed; not the pastel-pink silk tablecloths, not the live band playing slow orchestral hymns on a trio of violins. 

Even all of Jacinthe’s guests remain. It’s as if you’d never left. This pulls up a throbbing frustration from deep within you, that you try to shove down by putting on a flat face.

Jacinthe hadn’t let you and your team rest, showing up at Hotel Z with another damn hologram. It looks like you won’t be getting any sleep tonight either.

Though it looks like the rest of Jacinthe’s guests are in the same boat. Many are completely unaffected by your and Urbain’s re-entrance—Canari has fallen asleep beside Gwynn on one of the fancy plush couches, while Ivor and Tarragon have started some sort of appetizer-eating-contest. 

Only Corbeau turns your way, standing stiffly near the opposite end of the room.

You approach him alone, Urbain now digging into the dessert bar near the wall. Corbeau appears less-than pleased to be here, though once you’ve reached him his taught shoulders minutely relax. 

Philippe nods to you, the only acknowledgement you’ve received of your presence. Then Corbeau raises his angled brow as though prompting you to speak.

“Hey,” You start. “I got your text. You wanted to talk to me about somethin?’”

“Not here.” Corbeau all but growls, a vein bulging through his forehead.

You accept this with a nod of your head. Seems like that’s a forbidden subject within Hotel Richisseme; even Philippe looks astounded that Corbeau had contacted you, a stark surprise clear on his face. This amuses you, but you smoothly change the subject.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it then.” You shift your weight to your opposite hip, the movement sluggish with exhaustion. “Though…say, have you all been here this whole time?”

“We couldn’t leave,” Philippe answers you, frowning deeply. “Jachinthe trapped us here with some sort of holotech. She called it a 'Jacinthe Zone.'”

You stare at him, a tight pinch growing between your brows. It seems your sinking suspicion was correct. “..Are you serious?”

“..I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you upset,” Corbeau remarks, sounding amused. “You’ve been running around pacifying Rogues this whole time, haven’t you? I can’t say I blame you.”

“‘M not upset,” You grumble, your voice sounding markedly upset to your own ears. You take a deep breath and sigh loudly. “Just…tired. It’s awful of her to trap you all here and to follow me around like—,” You cut yourself off with a frustrated grunt, pressing between your eyes. “—I’m not some entertainment show for rich folk.”

“I’m starting to feel a bit bad now.” Corbeau returns, his suave tone fading into solemnity. For some reason you’re reminded of his odd, sporadic texts, the white font flat and toneless on your screen. “Though you are entertaining, I hope you know the Syndicate does not think of our exchanges as a ‘show.’”

“Not you,” you wave him off with a casual hand, “You’re different.”

Corbeau’s face does its weird frown-twitch. Philippe now seems amused for some reason, his slate eyes wide and utterly unreadable.

“You two scope out the deets?” You ask them frankly, sticking your hands in the pockets of your coat. “They got free coffee in this schmancy joint?”

“You certainly don’t sound like you belong here,” Urbain claps you on the shoulder. His smile falters when he spots Corbeau, but you ignore it, playfully shrugging off his hand.

“What am I supposed to sound like?” You roll your eyes, your voice taking on a higher pitch. You pretend to flip a lock of your hair. “Alors, you should quit savin’ the city and come to my five-star hotel for tea an’ pan au chocolat—,”

Philippe chuckles then pretends to cough into his fist. Corbeau glares at him with twitching brows, opening his mouth to reprimand him. Then the stage explodes into a shower of sparkles. 

Canari snorts awake with a yelp and nearly falls off of the couch.

“Bienvenue, one and all!” Jacinthe exclaims into the crowd, her high heels clicking neatly onto the polished marble tile. She holds out her hands wide, her golden rings sparkling with crystalline gems, and then dramatically flips her hair. “Alors, I do hope you’ve enjoyed our five-star amenities, complimentary tea and fresh-baked pan au chocolat—,”

Corbeau makes a loud, strangled sound crossed between a cough, choke, and a regurgitated swallow. Silence sinks throughout the room as you and many others turn to stare at him. Did he just laugh?

Jacinthe’s smile grows ever-wider, neat and vaguely foreboding. She continues speaking without a chip in her perfectly-poised demeanor. “..Now that the stars of our show have arrived, our tournament may finally begin!”

Your smile squiggles upward, wide and uncontrollable. You feel Corbeau glaring at you in the corner of your eye, and can practically see the veins bulging over his brow. 

You slap your hand over your mouth to hide your grin. Yet a chuckle escapes between your fingers, bubbling like a burst of bright water.

“Quit it,” Corbeau hisses at you as Jacinthe’s form glows across a holographic leaderboard. “You’re embarrassing me.”

You cup your hand back just enough so he can see your smile. His whole body’s shrouded in pink light from the holographic screen, stripes of bright white curling over his shoulder in a pale glow. 

“Looks like you’re up against Urbain,” You return, your eyes darting once to the pink screen. “You might end up embarrassin’ yourself,”

A sharp smile curls over his face, also pink. “Do you really have so little faith in me?”

“I’ve got all the faith in the world in you,” You return. “But Urbain’s our leader. So go ahead and lose, will ya?”

“I’ll have to refuse.” His smile’s huge now, his face even pinker. “As I’m aiming for a rematch against you.”

The screen flashes. Jacinthe twirls in place, her white curls like spirals of clouds, whirling and bounding. “For the first match, we will have the reliable Urbain and the intoxicating Corbeau—!”

Urbain pumps his fists, jogging in place in his ridiculous little ritual. It makes you laugh, the sound lost in the uproarious cheers rising from the other end of the stage, where numerous members of the SBC are raring for a good battle. These rich folk sure know how to get rowdy.

“Beat ‘im to the ground, Urbain.” You clap your friend’s shoulder solemnly.

Urbain grins back at you, sharp-toothed and fierce, seeming emboldened by your faith in him. This pink-toned world suits him, glittering in his wide blue eyes. “Already plannin’ on it!”

You hear the voices of the other two rumble behind you.

“Good luck, Boss.” 

“I don’t need luck, Philippe.” 

Man, Corbeau really talks like a movie character sometimes. You chuckle as he follows Urbain and strides onto the blocky marble stage. 

In this pink world, he casts you in his deep, purpling shadow. Then he turns to look over his shoulder, his glasses catching beams of silvery light.

See you soon, he mouths with a quirk of a smile.

A small warmth quivers in your chest, gentle and pulsing like a star.

I’ll be there in an hour. What do you and Philippe want from Nouveau café?

Only after Jacinthe’s ridiculous tournament does the world stop to take a breath, open-mouthed and blustery with a grey sky warning of snow. 

“You sure are a bold one, huh?” You scrub the top of the Drillbur’s head, and it chitters without a care, pleased by the casual affection. “Makin’ a mess in the Great Corbeau’s garden.”

“I’m sure glad he managed to fix it,” The Rust Syndicate grunt next to you scrubs the back of his head, his permanent scowl pursed in worry. “He’s a good fella. I’ll teach ‘im to stay out of trouble.”

“He was prolly’ just tryin’ to get out of the cold,” You return, standing from your crouch. Drillbur squeaks up at you, shaking his arms happily. “Corbeau put in those heated pavers, right? So this lil’ stowaway won’t be the last.”

“You sure know your stuff, huh?” The grunt returns. He chuckles. “I appreciate the tip. I’ll keep an eye out. And—thanks,” 

The grunt abruptly dips his head, his tone low and nervous. “You really got me out of a tough spot…Who knows what would’a happened to me if the boss found out.

“No biggie.” You reach up to scratch beneath Garchomp’s chin. He dutifully remains quiet and still despite being happy about the attention, seeing that he doesn’t cause an earthquake on the spot. What an excellent show of restraint.

“Good boy,” You praise, grinning at him, all-teeth. Garchomp smiles giddily in return, and a huge drop of his drool splats right into the hole Drillbur just fixed up. Oops.

You don’t have time to address this, as your Rotom phone leaps out of your trench coat’s pocket with a frantic buzz. The grunt next to you flinches at the name on the screen, and flinches again when you lazily pick up.

“Hey,” You greet.

“How long are you going to loiter in my garden?” Corbeau states impatiently.

“A bit longer, ‘prolly.” You relish in the cool breeze, listen to the soft clattering and wavering of the bamboo, and hum with a comfortable smile. “It’s peaceful out here.”

“Get upstairs. Now.”

Then he hangs up at you, as he’s so fond of doing. You chuckle to yourself, then find that the grunt next to you looks utterly terrified. He says a name—your name—the way one would whisper about ghosts in the dark. 

“That’s you,” He says your name again. Your name sounds real terrifying when he murmurs it like that. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

You blink at him, a bit flummoxed. “..In the flesh.”

“I’m so sorry!” The grunt veritably shrieks, immediately crouching into a squat, his head bowed down low. “I didn’t recognize you, miss! I can’t apologize enough, miss! My deepest apologies, miss!”

You have half a mind to stop him, but this feels like payback for him trying to kick you out of the garden earlier. You smile, absentmindedly rubbing Garchomp’s prickly scales. “‘Nothin’ to apologize for.”

“Bur!” Drillbur waves his arms around, astounded by the way his new trainer is acting.

The grunt’s voice rises in volume. “We’ve heard you were arriving, miss! Please allow me to escort you to the top floor, miss!”

You squint at him dubiously, then out into the garden’s gentle, sloping sands. With a reluctant exhale, you return Garchomp into his pokéball and meander behind the nervous grunt in a sloping stroll. 

You pluck your tray of coffee, fresh from Nouveau café, off a nearby smooth stone as you go. “..No need for all the formalities. I’m nobody special,”

The smooth smell of Philippe’s ridiculously sweet drink order wisps in a bubbling cloud of condensation. You inhale, your nose scrunching, still feeling that ominous gaze burn into your back.

The legendary pokémon Zygrade. Once L’s ever-present companion, now your freaky guardian angel. On occasion it will appear before your eyes, flashing in a black shadow, its glowing gaze piercing through long, stretching alleyways. It’s been visibly following you at all hours ever since it and L crash-landed into Jacinthe’s tourney hall. 

The zip of its form creases in the corner of your eye, disappearing into the early winter haze. The innocuous pebble it gifted you all those months ago burns in your pocket like a brand. You dutifully, uncomfortably ignore it.

You’re truly nobody special. So why does Zygrade watch you like it knows something you don’t?

You have no time to ponder this further, straightening your spine as you shuffle through the Rust Syndicate’s thick glass doors. A line of grunts stiffen at your entrance, forming a wall across the long marble hall. Tall statues of Sneasel wave their hooked claws over tables streaked with slabs of dark stone, watching you slip in through the elevator’s tall doors.

When you arrive in Corbeau’s office, you spot him pause in his chair across the long path to his desk. The marble tapping beneath your boots gleams up at you, so polished you can see your reflection drifting across its smooth surface.

“Hello, hello..how kind of you to humor a man like me,” Corbeau states, his low voice echoing around you. “Once again, I wish to apologize for my conduct at Hotel Z. I may have fallen off of the straight and narrow, but I have morals I wish to uphold.”

He stands, his gaze on the tray of coffee in your hands. You notice he often puts himself down in a rather half-hearted, flippant manner, for reasons you can’t quite put your finger on. 

“Hey,” You return casually, adjusting the tray in your hands. “Like I said last time. It’s no biggie.”

Corbeau’s brow stiffens with a frustrated twitch.

Your reflection moves alongside you, following you to the front of his desk, where a myriad of papers and fancy black pens have been stacked and sorted in neat, straight rows. Likely Philippe’s doing.

The tray settles between a book as thick as a historical tome. “This one’s yours, Corbeau,” You point to the iced black coffee, “Then Philippe’s is here.”

“Thanks for the drink.” Philippe grins at you, a crooked smile of thanks that you’ve become rather fond of. He plucks his cup from the tray and a wisp of saccharine sweeteners tickles your nose. 

A smile quivers over your cheek; when you’d rattled off that coffee order, Griselle had made quite the face.

Corbeau unfolds his arms. He grabs his iced coffee, takes a slow, small sip, and then pauses again. He sets down his cup and the ice quietly rattles like the tail of an Ekans. However, he does not say anything.

He only stands from his desk and turns his back to you, folding his arms behind him. You can faintly see his reflection in the glass surrounding the battle room. 

“..Thank you for the coffee.” If you didn’t know him well, you wouldn’t have noticed the rigidness in his voice. “And for your help in the garden. I saw that you assisted one of my grunts.”

The sizzling frustration returns to his voice—though his upset doesn’t sound like it’s aimed at you. “..It seems that I am once more in your debt.”

This man thinks of everything as a transaction, doesn’t he?

“Wanna go for a stroll?” you suggest to his stonily set shoulders. “All the fall leaves are almost gone. We’ve only got a few more days to enjoy ‘em.”

Philippe glances between you and Corbeau, reading whatever expression is on his boss’ face. He steps to the side. 

Corbeau turns back around, smoothing down his tie. His eyes flicker over you as his deep frown purses with a reverberating solemnity. “I suppose fresh air would do me some good.”

“Nice,” you return with a grin. “It’s freakin’ cold out, though. Maybe grab a scarf.”

Philippe leans down to speak over Corbeau’s shoulder. “Should I come with you, boss?”

Corbeau’s shoulders stiffen further. “No.”

“Then I’ll grab your scarf. Would you like Spinarak silk or Wooloo wool today?”

“Philippe.” Corbeau growls, his voice taught and thick with venom. “Get out.”

Outside you can finally relax, your cheeks flushed with the gentle brush of cold air. 

Corbeau emerges from the tall gates at your side, adjusting a thick loop of black fabric around his neck. Phillipe stands at the entrance, but at Corbeau’s offhanded glare, he takes four large steps back.

“Wooloo wool, huh?” You comment offhandedly. “Good choice.”

Corbeau’s furious eyes burn into you and you turn your head away with a swallowed laugh. Yet the chuckle shakes your shoulders and crinkles into your eyes until the world’s colors sharpen.

Corbeau makes a sound like an Abrok about to strike, his face flushing in anger. “Enough.”

“Your face's all red,” You stride forward, grinning at him humorously. “Is it the wool? Are you getting overheated?”

Corbeau’s brow violently contorts, the skin sharpening into deep canyons. His wrath warps through the air itself. “..Do you have no fear?”

You laugh, shoving your hands deep into your pockets, feeling your leg catch and drag behind you as though stuck in the mud. “None at all,”

Corbeau’s fury fades, his face smoothing out into a flickering frown. He turns toward the path ahead, his footsteps never faltering, then exhales a visible puff of warm air. 

“..Right.” He says eventually. “What a brave little do-gooder you are.”

‘Do-gooder,’ huh? The title warms the backs of your calves like the old metal front of AZ’s antique oven. It coaxes you forward down the uneven cobbles, and it makes your shaking, stupid ol’ legs work just a bit better.

“Corbeau,” You start as the sloping gardens of Bleu Plaza come into view. “Do you really feel like you owe me some sorta debt?” 

“Of course.” Corbeau states without a beat. “I owe you for your recent assistance, and your magnanimous forgiveness of my recent transgressions.”

He’s talkin’ all weird—even weirder than usual. Sometimes his mixture of accented street-slang and professional verbiage clash together like a collapsing set of armor. 

You stop walking. Corbeau stops with you, his shoulders rolling back at your probing stare; you gaze at him, into him. “..Why?”

“I fear,” Corbeau returns, “That I am not a good person. I am not someone you should be involved with.”

As you stand beside him in the slope of shriveled grass, Bleu Plaza’s stretching fountains glimmer up at you from down below. Corbeau’s voice carries in the wind, his face flat and gaze impenetrable, revealing nothing.

“We were lucky enough to cross paths, but we have come from different walks of life,” He tells you, the wind tousling his neatly-styled hair. “The roads we travel will lead to very different places. I cannot stand beside you, or I will taint your world with grime.”

“Our relationship should remain as it was.” Corbeau turns toward the plaza below, his hands tucked neatly behind his back. “One of repayment and simple acquaintanceship. I was foolish to act as I did. I promise I will make it up to you.”

You squint at him. What in the world is he talking about?

“Hey,” you prompt. “Can you let Scoliopede out?”

Corbeau stiffens. “What?”

“Humor me. She must be bored, bein’ trapped inside your office all day.” Without preamble, you dig into your satchel and throw out a smooth red pokéball. “Let’s give her some fresh air too. How ‘bout it?”

Meganium emerges from her ball in a glittering flash of blue light. Her slow-blinking eyes peel open, allowing her bright, sunny yellow irises to fixate on you. She dips her long neck forward with a gentle, trilling coo, the petals of her bright pink flower wafting with an herby, soothing scent.

You reach for her as she nudges her head into her cheek, wrapping your arms around her, and a laugh spills from you as her curling, ticklish antenna brush near your flicking lashes. 

“Mega,” She coos. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold her tightly. Her huge feet stomp lazily as she leans into you, just enough that you begin falling back.

A hand plants between your shoulder blades, steadying and warm. You turn to find Corbeau’s scrunched face, his baffled gaze intense yet shiny. “What on earth are you doing?”

“C’mon. Where’s Scoliopede?” You grin at him. “Let’s have ‘em play,”

Corbeau hesitates.

“Don’t worry, Meganium’s real friendly. She gets along with everybody,” You pat your partner’s smooth side, and her head lolls toward you sleepily. You sure hope she won’t doze off right away. “She’s super amazin’ like that.”

Corobeau’s warm palm twitches away from your back. Wordlessly, he reaches into his dark slack’s pocket and pulls out Scoliopede’s polished Dusk ball. Then his great, hulking pokémon bursts into existence, trilling at the sight of you, her huge red horns glittering with the sunlight’s reflective sparks.

The two huge pokémon lock eyes, matching sunny golds. Scoliopede moves first, her probing, sharp movements dipping into Meganium’s space. Meganium blinks sluggishly, her maw parting with a yawn.

Scoliopede cranes her head back, then slowly begins to stomp forward. Corbeau’s hands curl into tight fists, his eyes trained on his partner’s stark white scar—the one place on Scoliopede’s strong spine where her armor can no longer cover.

Meganium playfully bumps her forehead into Scoliopede’s neck. Then she gives the towering bug-type a huge, long sniff.

Your partner makes a musical sound almost like laughter, then nuzzles into Scoliopede’s side; she leans into her and brushes alongside her, purposely making their bodies collide. Scoliopede nudges her head into Meganium in return.

Corbeau’s hands relax. You laugh quietly. Scoliopede begins to buzz competitively, trotting away from the two of you, her head turned as though prompting Meganium to follow.

The pair stomp and amble down Bleu plaza’s deep slope in a lazy, galloping race. You feel your fringe catch in the breeze and brush against your face comfortingly.

“Look at ‘em,” You say fondly, feeling your eyes crinkle together in the bright sunlight. “They’ve got totally contrastin’ typing, don’t they? Yet they’re still runnin’ around an’ playin’ like that.”

Corbeau says nothing for a long time. Scoliopede bumps into Meganium’s side, prompting her to topple backwards onto her behind and then pretend to faint. You watch your partner start to doze off before Scoliopede impatiently nudges her awake.

“When I saw Lysandre at Jacinthe’s ridiculous tournament..” Corbeau divulges suddenly. “It was a shock. Even more so because he does not remember me.”

You listen silently, watching Meganium amble to stand. Pollen wafts from her huge, flapping flower, making Scoliopede dramatically shrink back and wrinkle her nose.

“I’ve done many things that I’m not proud of.” Corbeau closes his eyes tightly. “But in the end, I did them all for this city—I did those things because no one else would. I have no regrets. Lysandre, or L…”

“Ultimately, I will repay him for how he saved me in my youth. However,” His expression darkens. “I hope he regrets what he’s done for the rest of his life.”

You turn your head, watching Corbeau beneath the shade of slowly shifting tree branches, their remaining wispy leaves glittering as they drift around him. 

Corbeau pauses for a long time, his voice oddly quiet. “Though, is it wrong of me to miss him? Ultimately, he was a mentor to me.” 

His hands clench into tight fists as he glares down at the park’s streaming fountains. “He tried to destroy everything he’d built, even the people he’d saved. I once understood his motivations, as I, too, see the grime that coats this city…but what he did five years ago was nonsensical. Utterly inexcusable.”

“I can’t ever forgive him for it, yet—,” Corbeau’s voice briefly dips. “The memory of him casts a deep shadow in my heart.”

He drags a hand down his face, a sardonic smile twitching over his cheeks. “It’s funny, almost, as now he has forgotten everything, including me. This debt is all I have left of him.”

Scoliopede lowers herself down onto the grassy earth to rest, tired from all the playing. Meganium wobbles over and lazily plops down next to her, her large pink petals draping over her new friend’s side. One of them covers Scoliopede’s rough, white scar, shielding it from the bright sunlight.

“..You can miss something you have mixed feelings about,” You tell Corbeau. “A life that was once good and bad…a man who once was good and bad. That’s not strange. I think that’s natural.”

You gaze down at your hands. “Before they cut me open…I could walk like normal. Though the pain was immense, even worse than now.”

“Yet I miss that time of my life.” You watch clouds dip low over the buildings beyond, their soft peaks touching the sun’s glimmering rays. “I miss a world without wounds and scars.”

Scoliopede’s head dips and rests on top of Meganium’s head. The pair chitter happily, their soothing sounds drifting over you in a wavering murmur.

You turn your head to Corbeau, finding his expression warmer, looser, and easily understood. A smile shapes over your cold cheeks. “Corbeau, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I find that hard to accept,” He returns softly.

You huff a sigh. “Then…just sit with that thought for a minute.”

The wind whistles. You tuck your hands into your pockets, your cold fingers curling into your palms. Down below, Scoliopede and Meganium have gotten up to play again, now trotting in happy circles. A child and her mother are watching them play next to a fountain nearby, clapping and cheering them on. 

Soon the leaves above you will be gone. They will flutter away in an instant. If you blink, you’ll miss it. Only now do you have this chance.

“Hey, Corbeau,” a smile warms your face. “Can we be friends?”

Corbeau looks at you, his expression flattening. He runs his thumb over his folded arm. “..If that’s what you want, then I doubt I can stop you.”

“Sweet!” You laugh joyfully, pumping your fists. “You’ve just made me real happy,”

Corbeau’s arms tighten together as you lean toward him. Leaves flutter around you, weaving through the golden air.

“Okay, listen.” You state confidently, your pink-tipped fingers clenched into excited fists, your smile huge and cutting across your cold-flushed face. “Forget about the ‘debts.’ We’re friends. Friends just do stuff like this for each other.”

Corbeau’s staring at you like he’s never seen you before in his life. You read his silence as disagreement. 

You huff a puff of air and retreat, propping your hands on your hips. “..If you’re so worried, buy me a coffee next time we hang out. That should settle it.”

“..That’s not nearly enough.” He states distantly.

You roll your eyes. How stubborn. “Your company is more than enough.”

“Do you mean my presence? The presence of a ne’er-do-well like me?” Corbeau’s face sharpens, his eyes wide, as he steps closer to you. His voice dips, quiet and low. “I don’t have nearly enough time in the day to give to you. That won’t be enough either.”

“I,” You exhale sharply, exhausted by all the complications. “I dunno, just send me texts every day about how great your damn day is goin’ and forget about debts forever. There. Easy.”

“That’s a ridiculous ask.” Corbeau returns, yet his odd, warped smile has returned. “‘Forget about debts forever?’ You’re asking me to stop doing my job.”

You huff, scrubbing the back of your head.

“You’re frustrated, aren’t you?” A sharper smile, a lilting tone. “What a privilege for me to experience. Say, how do you battle when you’re all riled up?”

“Enough of your silver tongue.” You step away from him then plop your behind down into the grass. With a contented sigh, you lay down completely, your slow-blinking eyes staring up into the crossing weave of dancing branches high above.

The horizon sinks with the growing cold, a cool wind rushing over you and tickling through the long brown grasses. You hear a shuffle of fabric, a warm presence at your side stepping closer.

“Get up.” Corbeau prompts, toeing you with his fancy sharp-tipped loafer.

You scrunch your brow, disgruntled. “Huh? Why? I just laid down,”

“Get up,” Corbeau repeats scoldingly. “Now. I’m losing patience.”

With a huff, you prop yourself onto your elbow to sit up halfway.

Corbeau crouches down next to you and pulls off his scarf. You have no idea what he’s doing until he leans over you, the article draped over his fingertips in a looping spool.

Corbeau wraps the dark fabric around you, tucking its long, soft flap into the loop around your neck. You watch his eyes, sharp and focused, watch the way his frown pinches at the corners.

His words, his sharp tone—they all clash with his actions. His hands twitch, marked with old scars you can trace with your eyes now that he’s this close. Those hands were chiseled by all the mountains he’s climbed. Yet even now that he’s reached the peak of success, his touch remains gentle and his gaze remains kind.

“There’s still so much I have to learn about life,” You say suddenly. “And when I’m around you, I feel that way all over again,”

Corbeau’s hands jerk away and his head yanks upward. He’s so close you can see the deep yellow grooves in his irises, feel the brush of his breath gusting against your face. He smells of cloves and warm coffee.

“We may be from different walks of life, but I’m glad I met you,” You continue, your smile pulling up over the soft, warm wool around your shoulders. “And I’m real glad to be friends with you. So tell your guards that I’ll keep comin’ around, ‘kay?”

A red blotchiness drifts over Corbeau’s ears like the flickering petal of a rose. Yet his stable, solid countenance doesn’t falter. That’s something you admire about him. You smile, turn away, and lay back onto the earth, tucking your hands behind your head.

“..Next time I see you, I’ll have something to tell you.” Corbeau states gruffly, his words strung together in stark, flickering syllables. He stands, and his twitching hands finally fall back to his sides.

“Not now?” You wonder, your eyes sliding shut in the bed of ticklish grass. 

“I am admittedly still trying to find the words.”

“Hm,” You return, noncommittal. “I’ll be patient.” You crack open one eye to smile up at him. “You know, you’re not as suave as your underlings make it seem.”

Corbeau rubs a hand down his wobbling, flattened frown. It’s a face you’ve begun to realize is flustered. “..That’s your fault, you know. Though, I don’t dislike it. I feel like I can be myself around you.

“Really,” You return without a hint of surprise. You sit up, leaning over your tucked knees.

He’s always so honest, too–even with that sharp tongue of his. You wonder if anyone else can see behind his smiles like this. How grateful you are to be here at this moment—how grateful you are that it gets to be you.

“Don’t worry, Corbeau,” You tell him, your voice soft and genuine. “I’ll always think that you’re the coolest guy around.”

This seems to please your friend immensely, because he turns his head away to hide it.

“Hey!” Urbain shouts alongside Naveen’s disgruntled, “Lida—,” 

Lida bounds into the lobby, grinning and holding a huge flag high above her head. With it fluttering with her flickering movements, you can’t read what it says, only catching its flashes of red, white and neon green that curl with her twirling dark hair. 

“Give that back!” Naveen shouts as he races toward her, a spool of thread unraveling from his hand. Urbain frantically attempts to pick up the squiggling trail of thread, rushing after him in a half-crouch toward the floor. “Lida! Naveen’s not done yet—!”

“Come and get it!” Lida prances from their reach, crimson fabric curling around her frame like a color guard’s flag. She then bounds across the room and into the kitchen, cackling raucously, and Naveen stumbles after her, dropping his spool of thread entirely. 

“Guys, wait up!” Urbain shouts. He nearly trips as he tries to gather the knotted bundles scattered at his feet, then darts into the kitchen after them. You hear distant giggles alongside clatters of pots and pans.

On the couch next to you, AZ silently sips his drink. You peer around his thin, hulking shoulder with a bemused grin.

Belatedly, Scrafty stumbles out of the dining room, carrying a sewing box spitting occasional buttons. They tumble out alongside him and follow his little tapping feet in a trail as he runs after his trainer and into the kitchen.

“Scrafty!” You hear Naveen call frantically. There’s a laughing shriek and a thud.

“..Will you not stop them?” AZ asks you.

“I’m busy,” you lift the long, white braid of his hair in your hands with a self-satisfied smile. “Besides, I’m pretty fond of their antics too.”

AZ chuckles, then coughs into his fist.

Floette coos beside his arm, the sound melding with the distant chaos in the kitchen beyond. Her deep black flower catches the morning light as it weeps through holes in the old, patchy curtains behind her. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about, AZ?” You ask casually, weaving together another section of his hair.

“..Time. It is not a number, but a process.” AZ cradles his coffee mug gingerly, slowly bringing it to his lips. Then he pauses midway, setting it back down again. “Soon, this time will pass. If I am to be remembered…I would like you to remember me in snow.”

You hum curiously, pausing your methodical ministrations. “..Snow?”

“Yes. Pure, white snow…a snow that silences and blankets everything.” AZ smiles to himself. “Snow is peaceful. It wipes the slate clean, allowing the world to start anew.” 

AZ gazes at you with a kind smile. “Don’t you agree?”

You chuckle, wrapping one thick strand of his hair into another, a baffled smile peeling over your lips. “AZ...what in the world are you talkin’ about?”

AZ only hums vaguely in response, a quiet and pleased sound. Floette chitters next to your head as you loop in another length of braid. You should be used to his odd and somewhat eerie anecdotes by now, you think, pawing for the hair tie as his heavy mass of hair loops over one of your legs.

Naveen had made this soft, burgundy ribbon alongside AZ’s patchwork suit. It was one of his first commissions, he’d told you once over a few cups of tea. You weave the tail end of the braid together, then wrap the frayed, stitched ribbon around it.

“Emma was the first to braid my hair,” AZ tells you, his mug cupped in his hand as he stares into the lobby with a faraway gaze. “And now, that task has fallen to you. Though I must say, you are much better at it. Emma, well…she cut that lovely hair of hers for a reason.”

You chuckle. Then AZ continues, his soft voice dipping into a tone musical and reminiscent. “I’ve found…that those who go through torturous times have the warmest hands.”

He turns his head slightly, and you pause, the ribbon wrapped in his hair falling loose between your fingers. 

“Your hands are gentle,” He tells you. “I see now…that the long and arduous path that you have walked has taught you kindness.”

He turns away. “I only wish I could say the same for myself. Cruelty, in the face of suffering, is easy. Kindness…is not.”

“That is why…your strength is a marvel, my friend,” AZ tells you. “Many have been drawn to it, and for good reason. Just being in your presence has a certain warmth.”

You blink at him. “Well, yeah. I’m pretty great, aren’t I?”

AZ chuckles. The sound, ragged and wet, twists into a hacking cough. You pat a flat hand on his thin, hunched back.

“...I think I’ve come to love this place.” You tell him. “At first, I was just lookin’ for an escape. Lumiose was this destination that seemed more like a dream than someplace real. Then when I got here, everything just…”

“It felt right,” AZ finishes for you.

“It felt right.” You nod. “I don’t think I’m a hero—I’m not actually the greatest person, either. I’m just doin’ the best I can and I’m real proud of myself for that.”

“Why did you come to this city?” AZ asks you. It’s a question you’ve been asked by your friends many times before. Only now do the words finally come to you.

Carefully, you pluck your own cup of fresh coffee from the nearby table, letting its warmth gust over your face. 

“..Actually, I’m not sure yet,” You murmur, staring down at your reflection in the dark drink’s murky surface. “At first, I just wanted to go somewhere—anywhere else. But now..”

You chuckle quietly, thumbing the handle of your mug. “..I don’t know.”

AZ hums through a long sip of his drink. 

“Do you think I could stay here?” You ask him suddenly.

“That is a question only you can answer,” He returns, noncommittal. Then his large, spindly hand reaches out, and lands on top of your head. You twitch. 

AZ pats your hair, his neatly-tied braid slipping from your lap and dragging over the couch. “Though here at Hotel Z, you will always be welcome.”

Thick white strands blanket the cushions, as soft and shiny as fresh snow. Your Rotom phone buzzes on the adjacent table. A familiar text bubble glows in the corner of your eye, hanging from the top of the screen.

Not much to report on today. Philippe’s bothering me about deadlines as always. I should hope your morning is going better than mine. 

Respond soon, got it?

You smile to yourself. The coffee mug in your hands feels comfortably warm.

You’re running.

As you run, you remember it—your feet hitting the ground, your knee bending, your leg lifting, your ankles burning—a clunky machine. The earth jumps beneath you, Naveen and Lida shouting at your back. Glowing streaks of Mega Energy cut bubbling shapes into the air, burning through anything they touch.

AZ’s hand shifts and leaves the top of your head, his old eyes crinkled into crescent shapes. The room glows red. 

I thought that building Ange would be my way of atonement, he whispers, his thin voice gusting over you like the cold breath of a ghost. You scramble to the side as a tower of scaffolding tumbles over into the street, collapsing in a screeching cacophony of metal. But we were in a time of peace.

Your teeth gnash together, bone against bone, as you suck in breath after frantic breath. Pinkish energy bubbles up from the ground, acidic like poison, burning through even the concrete. You turn your head over your shoulder as Ange, the great tower of Lumiose, tears itself from the ground.

An abandoned café streaks past you on the street. Two figures stand over you, shrouded in crimson light. 

The man peels open his knife-like eyes. Do you see now? He asks you. Do you see what AZ meant to do? 

You traced your hands over hundreds of old documents. Your breath came out in fast bursts. Team Flare’s Lysandre haunts the dark corridor as a tape whirrs in the speakers overhead. Your hands shake with each word that sizzles from his recorded lips.

We strapped six pokémon to the stones, L stays silent before you like an empty shell. This should be enough. 

Energy warps up through the ground as though furious, roots writhing and digging into crackling trees. Ange, AZ’s second creation, howls in rage.

Make a choice. You nearly fall as you stumble across the cracked, rumbling sidewalk. Why do you protect this place with such conviction? 

Urbain is in that tower. Urbain is up there. Urbain, your friend—,

—You’re not even from here, Ex-Team Flare Grisham hisses, a pokéball clutched in his white-knuckled fist. You have no idea about the burdens we carry.

You didn’t. You still don’t. Everything about this place feels foreign to you, even the water that runs through the city’s great canals, the way it breathes in the night, the way it never sleeps. Broken windows flicker with light like eyes opening.

You’re fond of it, you realize. You’ve grown fond of this city—this city is yours. Even if you cannot understand it, you love it, you love its people with their experiences, joys, and burdens—you love your friends. You love your home.

It’s strange. You are always ready to run, even if you cannot run, even if there is nowhere to run to. It is a necessary evil. You were born with a pain that you were forced to accept, lest the world burn to ash and you forget that your life was worth living. 

Even now it all hurts, each impact of your heel hitting the earth, the pressure stabbing up into your neck like thousands of needles. Urbain is in that tower, rattles the scaffolding beneath your feet. Urbain—,

It’s not your place and you know nothing. Yet you have been chosen, so you will run. If not for your friends—if not for AZ, whose confession felt like a betrayal—then for the pokémon who suffered, for that Charizard who swept off into the open blue sky.

“Hey!” Ivor calls to you, waving a huge, beefy arm. He grins encouragingly, the wind kicking up at his back. “Pick up the pace—!”

How have you been?

Good. Excellent text Corbeau, there’s much less venom in this one.

You’re on thin ice.

“There ya are! Hey, how’s G-Volt?” Canari asks you, tugging down her face mask as she bounces on her heels. “Didjya’ see ‘er? She doin’ okay?”

Even in the panic of each reverberating tremor rippling through the brick-lined streets, even with sheets of concrete shedding from old buildings’ facades, the trainers of Lumiose do not falter. 

“Just fine.” You smile as you pull a pokéball from your satchel. “As ominous and cryptic as always.”

Rogue pokémon writhe in their suffering, yet their gazes remain trusting even in their agony-filled rage. Sheets of shimmering metal flicker and dance along a Mega Steelix’s sides as Tarragon shouts orders over the crackling of flames.

Canari laughs loudly, lightning from her Eelektross sparking at her back. “That’s why we get along so well!”

I apologize for being out of the office during your recent visit.

Give yourself some more credit. I know you were out donating to those children’s education programs.

All you can do is run; you keep running. You have not a moment to pause, not a moment to breathe. Each pokémon you quell collapses in silence as Ange’s massive metal frame creases into the skyline. Each trainer you meet pushes you back into the fray.

“Bonne chance, my dear,” Jacinthe calls beside Lebanne, waving a perfectly-poised hand. “When all of this is over, let us battle once again!”

Who the hell told you that?

Philippe. We got coffee together when you were gone.

I’m going to kill him.

I knew you’d say that.

“—Don’t worry about me,” You hear Corbeau say to Philippe over the phone. “Our favorite little do-gooder is here to save the day.”

He turns to you as you stumble into the empty mall, all outside sounds muffled beneath the great glass dome above. Corbeau’s gaze meets yours over the stretching, polished tile, his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed. The marble makes each stumbling footstep of yours awfully audible.

“You’ve been running this whole time, haven’t you?” He huffs as he strides forward, rolling his eyes. “This haphazard trip to Zygrade better be worth it.”

You can’t help but share the sentiment. Urbain’s blind trust in the bizarre legendary is the only thing keeping you going. You smile shakily in response, hardly able to stay standing. You wonder when you’ll have to start running again.

A glow of sizzling energy emerges from the other end of the mall. Corbeau turns toward it, his shoulders hiked and stiff. When you stand behind him like this, it feels as though you’re being protected by a grand, strong wall—like his Syndicate’s deep gray fortress.

“Hey,” he states suddenly, not turning back around. “I know I’d said that our gathering was due to the ZA Royale, but,” He dips his head to the side, his voice flattening. “It’s really you who brought us together.”

“You give me too much credit,” A breathless laugh escapes you, your stomach warming. You stand up straight and jerkily roll your shoulders back, thinking of all the diverse trainers who’d helped you along your path. “I think that the world ending just brings out the best in us.”

Corbeau narrows his brows at you over his shoulder. “The world won’t end. Not if we can stop it.”

“Then help me out, yeah?” You return, digging into your satchel and bracing your stinging heels into the earth. “It’s been a while since we’ve worked together.”

“Of course.” Corbeau lifts his Dusk ball, his eyes sharp and alight. “Scoliopede and I have your back—always.” 

I found out what AZ did. There are still so many things that I don’t understand.

You keep trudging forward, the desert’s hot sun burning your boiling shoulders.

I know. I know what it’s like to be betrayed by someone you trust.

Zygrade waits for you at the other end of a hospital corridor. The hallway shifts quietly, its tiled floors smothered with tan slopes of sand. 

You move. You have to keep moving. Zygrade’s gaze burns into you, silently watching as you carve your path across the earth. White lights flicker overhead, soft like the glow of the moon.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever grow past it. I still have this anger inside me. I’m not sure it will ever go away.

It’s okay if it doesn’t. Your anger belongs to you. What matters is what you do with it.

You say such sweet words sometimes. It’s as though you’ve lived twice a lifetime.

Suddenly you stand somewhere new, somewhere you’ve never seen before. A rooftop in a burning city a thousand miles from where you were born. Team Flare’s ex-grunts, Grisham and Griselle, stand beside you without faltering. 

You stare at Ange’s great burning flower in rage.

The fury in your heart comes from the same place as love, refusing to accept a reality where suffering reigns and a thick, burning poison runs through your spine. Refusing to accept a reality where you lose the only place that you’ve ever called ‘home.’

You are not special, you think. Your story is just another story of someone trying to survive. All you wish for is to be kind, to sit and listen to the roaring waterfall of the sun. To enjoy things just a little bit more, for just a little bit longer—to taste coffee in your mouth even long after your burdens have been swallowed.

It is only now that you recognize your own efforts. It feels like cradling a log smothered in flame. Each touch burns. Each touch reveals everything you’d tried so hard to keep inside.

Yet you will keep trying. You will keep running. Soon enough, you will climb that huge mountain on the desert’s burning horizon and you’ll make it to the city that you longed for.

“..That burden will be with me forever,” Grisham states, readying himself at your side. “But I can still choose my path forward.”

“This world is full of endless possibilities, isn’t it?” You smile slowly, pulling Garchomp’s ball from your satchel. Cold wind cradles your chapped face. “That’s what’s great about bein’ alive,”

“..Yes,” The barista stands tall, his fiery eyes open wide. “Whatever pain I felt in my past, I will burn it all away.”

His grin spreads, sharp and fierce. “All that exists is this moment.”

Ange warps a hole over the horizon as gashes of light curl from the rooftops beyond. The city pulses, its suffering brilliant and otherworldly. You breathe in air filled with lightbulbs buzzing and think: this is a moment of wonder.

Tell me, why did you come to Lumiose?

I’m not so sure myself.

You try to lunge forward but collapse to one knee. 

Garchomp shrieks in alarm and nudges into your side, pushing you to stand; you barely do, stumbling, your tights torn to ribbons, blood bleeding from the scabbing rippling over your shins. You gaze up beneath Zygrade’s great shield, noise whirling around you as Ange’s beam sizzles through the sky.

Why would Zygrade ever choose you? It can’t simply be because of your merit as a trainer; Urbain has come just as far as you have. Why would this legendary entrust to you the world? Is your strength truly ‘strength’ when this body of yours is so weak?

You hold onto Garchomp's side, your breathing wet and ragged. Your boots slip and tremble against the reverberating earth. There is no sun. There is no desert. There is only a pebble burning through your trench coat’s pocket, a little weighted stone.

What does walking have to do with anything? Asks the ground beneath your feet.

That stupid man, you think in breathless laughter as blinding light rains down from the sky. Fillin’ my head with his words and thinkin’ that he means nothing. 

Those words mean everything; those words in his voice mean everything. They make your blood rush, they make your legs move, they stick like thick honey in your teeth—too lovely and too sweet.

You run out from beneath Zygrade’s shield as they burst back into the sky, Garchomp lunging forward at your side with a reverberating roar.

There was probably some beautiful, better way of living that most people found when they lived their whole lives healthy. Like the world was a big open plain they could walk on forever and ever with no restraints. 

You felt a bit like Lumiose tower, like Ange with her whirling, crooked spires—beautiful and brilliant but boxed in by big walls, hurting inside in some way nobody can understand or explain. 

So they cut you open. So you cut Ange open. You’re both screaming and crying. You’re flailing your weeping flesh toward the sky. It hurts, she’s shrieking, wailing for you to stop. Her wires are her lifeline, like the tubes that dug into your wrists until they left permanent, pucker-mark scars. 

Flowers pucker and shrivel. Desert sands tear open your peeling cheeks. Your skin blooms alongside a wailing flower. You reach out, calling her name.

Garchomp roars.

I guess I wanted to live a life that I was proud of. 

Well, if it means anything, I’m proud of you.

Ange shows you pain. In a blue-tinted room, your boney knuckles wrap around the tubes and rip them from your wrist. Your veins weep blood and honey as Garchomp tears through Ange’s roots.

She writhes, gargles, and yanks her tendrils from the ground, water bursting up from the sewers below. Mega energy pools from crevices in her leaves, their thick sap smelling like sulfur. 

Suffer, she begs you. You suffer what you have suffered. You’re collapsing onto the trail. You’re dragging yourself through the burning sands, sweat thick and cutting across your back. 

Ange tips her head sideways, and then, wrought with desperation, lets loose one last beam, its brilliant white light cutting into the sky. 

Clouds split outward into deep grey gashes. You reach into your pocket as Zygrade zips back down to your side.

Thanks, Corbeau.

It’s nothing to thank me for. 

The pebble shatters in your hands. Mega Zygrade bursts forth, their eyes trusting and pure white as a sun. You reach toward the light, sinking into a slope of searing sand. 

Then the world explodes into quiet.

A woman’s face dips into your vision, her dark hands curling into the straps of her huge backpack. The sun warps the trail beyond her, its red, rocky crevices hazy and splattering.

“You alright there?” The backpacker asks you, her visage clearing until it’s as crisp as a crack of ice.

“Yeah, I.” You blink sparks from your eyes, gazing past her. You see nothing beyond the stretching orange horizon. “..I think I was somewhere else for a moment.”

“Aren’t we always somewhere else?” The backpacker laughs.

She begins to trudge forward, sweat making a slow crawl down her face. You follow her, your hiking boots catching on stray rocks, and grip onto your bike’s black handles, rolling it along.

It was your dream to backpack to Lumiose City, the sparkling capital of Kalos. Yet when you’d been diagnosed and hospitalized in your backwater town, they told you that you’d never walk right again.

Spending five years in and out of hospitals and rehabilitation centers did nothing yet everything for you. Every doctor you spoke to told you that it was a bad idea.

“Headed to Lumiose, huh?” The backpacker asks you over her shoulder, her dark eyes glimmering in the bright white light.

You nod slowly. “Mhm.” 

One day, you’d tucked your meager belongings in a single old bag and tied it to the back of a discount bike. If you couldn’t walk it, then you’d find another way.  It all seems reckless and stupid now, stranded in the middle of this empty desert, no hospital or doctor for miles.

“Bonne chance,” The backpacker returns encouragingly at your side. “I’m turnin’ onto the next trail in a few more miles.” 

She grins at you, shifting a dry stick in her mouth. “Keep me company ‘till the bend?”

You nod, mindlessly moving your bike along. Sweat pools under your chin, sticky and maddening. 

“It’s rare that I meet somebody else on this trail,” She tells you. “Let alone a biker. It’s usually just backpackers that you’ll see luggin’ along.”

“..Well, I still can’t walk very well,” You admit slowly, your voice exhausted to your own ears. 

Even as you push your bike alongside her, she clearly has to slow down and adjust her pace. Your bad leg cuts a deep, long groove into the packed sand, cacti glittering among the jumbles of crumbling rocks.

“I’m not judgin,’” The backpacker adjusts her pack in a shrugging motion. “And if it was up to me, I’d say you’re doin’ a mighty fine job right now.”

You stare down at your fists clenching into the handlebars, your eyes suddenly burning and hot. You blink rapidly, the trail beneath you a beautiful white wave.

“I dunno if I’ll make it,” You blurt suddenly.

You’re not sure why you say it. Maybe it’s too many hours with the sun searing into your skin, too little food, too many sleepless nights alone in a tent in the dark—maybe it’s ‘cause she’s the first person you’ve seen in weeks. 

So the words float out into the open, clear and crisp in a world empty for hundreds of miles. They rattle through the ragged shrubs all around you, weak and quiet.

“Seems idiotic, doin’ somethin’ like this, just ‘cause of my pride and some stupid old dream.” You continue, staring into the sun-warped, dusty haze. “After I spent all those years trapped in a hospital bed—,” 

You laugh sardonically. “What if I just die out here and destroy all that? If I end up ruinin’ this damn body,” You stare down at your legs, thin as bone, and at the deep crevice you’ve been carving into the sand. “Then what the hell’s the point?”

The backpacker stops, her thumbs in her back straps. She finally stops chewing on that damn stick, looking at you, that big red cap shading her eyes.

“Sorry,” You say shakily. “I dunno why I’m sayin’ all this.”

“..Nah. The trail makes you think, doesn’t it?” the backpacker adjusts her cap. “Makes you doubt yourself, makes you think about life, and about dying.”

“I think it’s the sun,” She squints up into it. “It burns all the pain right out of you.”

You stare at her, at her crinkly, dust-speckled skin, at her closed eyes. An Ekans slithers from a clicking shrub and the sand kicks up in a gentle wind.

“It’s warm.” She’s grinning, her yellowed teeth shining like starlight. “Close your eyes. Can you feel it?”

The sun falls from the sky.

You tilt your head back and close your eyes.

After the light from Ange’s beam had begun to drift down from the sky, you’d run toward the base of the rubble without thinking. Urbain, unharmed, had only laughed at you and held out his fist, clearly exhausted but ever-cheerful, cradling a quiet Floette to his chest.

You’d knocked knuckles with him, the both of you wearing matching, sloped grins. The moon sparkled above in an unrelenting beam, as full as a jar of pink jam.

“Did you climb all the way down here?!” Naveen nearly tripped on his way down a sheet of scaffolding. Lida held tight to his hand, shouting with relief and stumbling as she followed. “How in the world—?!”

“Don’t panic, everyone.” Urbain thumped his confident fist against his chest. “I’m the one who taught you all how to scale the buildings around here, remember?”

Lida had sighed once she’d gotten to the ground, tapping her foot and shaking her head. Naveen had stared up into Ange’s craned metal with a frustrated huff. Urbain had smiled—a small, soft smile—as though all of his questions had been answered.

You wordlessly threw yourself forward and embraced them. Lida coughed and laughed loudly while Naveen yelped and writhed beneath your soot-covered arm. Urbain grinned and pressed his cheek against yours, until Floette started making a series of panicked noises against your chest, waking up in a collision of your warm bodies.

For a while the four of you stood holding each other upright, your arms around each other’s shoulders, Floette fluttering in the space between you. Fireworks rattled from the sky in an enormous waterfall. Then a flash of green zipped onto a rooftop in the corner of your eye.

“You should go,” Urbain coaxed you, releasing you from under his arm. “You’ve still got somethin’ left unfinished, don’t you?”

“We’ll wait right here,” Lida smiled quietly, her hand slipping away from your back. Naveen nodded at her side. You immediately missed their warmth. “Then we can all go home together.”

Scabbed, shaking legs carry you across the roof. Light gathers on the concrete in speckled spots that drift over the tips of your black boots. Zygrade’s 10% Forme stares at you across the glimmering, flat sea.

You drag your legs along then sit down beside them, leaning your sparking back against a dusty wall of brick. Zygrade makes a low noise in greeting, the sound reminiscent of an air conditioner. 

Tilting your head back against the wall, you watch them trot closer to you, someone’s surviving line of laundry fluttering behind them in the wind.

You lift your hand. Zygrade closes their eyes and bumps their snout into your palm. Their scales have the texture of wax, smooth yet somewhat sticky, perhaps due to the Zygrade Cells that you can see glimmering within their neck’s neon-green patches. 

Awed, you feel an odd power coursing through you—a warmth that seeps through your spine alongside a feeling of calm acceptance. 

Exhaustion and relief settles over you as your hands stroke the top of Zygrade’s soft head. They nudge into your touch, collecting fireworks on their back.

Zygrade’s mouth opens, their tongue lolling in a smile. Then their glowing eyes flicker like a camera shutter, the expression reminiscent of a wink.

“Hello, hello,” Greets a familiar voice. “I thought you’d still be up here.”

Zygrade zips out of existence. Your hand falls limp back to the scratchy concrete at your side.

“Your friends told me to leave you alone.” Corbeau lifts himself up off of the ladder behind you, sounding winded and mildly peeved. You hear him huff and kick a stray rock. “For good reason—that ladder was ridiculous. Why do you keep making me do physical labor?”

You lift your head slowly. It moves as though through water. You feel relief when you see him for numerous, fuzzy reasons you can’t quite put your finger on. 

Corbeau’s black suit catches every glimmer of light. Behind him, leftover beams of Ange’s light drift down from the inky-blue sky. The colors curl around his pale face, freckling in bits of starlight on his glasses’ lenses. You watch the way his golden eyes stay on you, centered in the blob of your reflection.

“..You look exhausted.” He ambles a few steps closer, his hands in his pockets. One of his jacket sleeves is torn, catching stiff bits of those spiraling lights. They’re all you can focus on. “I saw you fighting down there. You did well.”

His footsteps come to a pause. A beam of light bounds over the pointed tip of his shoe. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Your head lolls sideways in a shake. You feel his gaze trace your blood-speckled knees, and he lets out a quiet sigh.

“..Stand up for a moment.” He states gently. When you open your eyes again you find him holding out a flat, open hand. “Come on, now.”

What a tall order. You blink at him languidly, then tip your head toward his hand, but you make no move to take it. 

Corbeau frowns, his expression harsh, intense, and unrelenting. He looks so pretty in the starlight. “If you’re not hurt, then you should be able to stand.”

“Sorry…so tired,” You mumble, your head dipping back to lean against the chunk of concrete. “Give me a moment…just a moment.”

Corbeau grumbles. You open your slow-blinking eyes to gaze up at him quietly, and he twitches when you meet his gaze.

“..You look like a star,” you tell him, your voice soft and far away. 

Corbeau stares at you for an indefinite amount of time—time that slinks around you in strokes of shimmery water. His pale face, blotchy and pinkish, scrunches into an odd expression. A freckle of light curls over the tip of his reddening nose.

“You always say such strange things.” He rubs his face, covering a wobbling, crinkling smile with his palm. “Though..I suppose that’s why I’m fond of you.”

The line of laundry flutters, the sleeves of a white dress shirt reaching into the night’s empty expanse. Corbeau ambles forward slowly, then kneels down before you. 

He reaches out. Warm hands enclose around your shoulders, pulling you forward so gently you could easily yank from his hold. You don’t. You stare down at his nice, shiny slacks instead—his expensive pants are ‘prolly gonna get all dirty if he kneels on the ground like this.

Yet he doesn’t seem to care. He guides you forward, then against him. Your head pillows against the creased collar of his jacket; you feel his silver lapel press near your collarbone. His hands curl around you and support your aching back.

You flinch as his touch brushes over the fabric, over your scar. Then as his palms gently settle, you relax. His chest dips with a heavy breath.

“..There,” He states finally, his voice low and melting with relief. “That’s a bit more comfortable, isn’t it?”

“Why’re you..?” You can’t phrase it, your words feeling like sludge in your mouth.

“I’ve already told you.” He mumbles into the side of your head, your hooped earring clacking against his glasses’ frames. “..I’m fond of you.” 

You chuckle quietly. The world fades into fizzling blankness as your eyelids fall shut against your will. 

It’s warm. His each and every breath rises and falls against you. All the stiff, expensive fabrics he wears are oddly comfortable, his silk shirt stroking your cheek, his odd glasses’ chain brushing against your temple.

Corbeau sighs as though the air has been pushed out of him. Your spine loosens, for once not having to hold you upright, and you sink like mud in a lake, melting with gravity.

“Hey, Corbeau,” You whisper into his warm, soft shoulder.

“What,” he states grumpily.

“You won’t be goin’ anywhere, right?”

His arms tighten around you wordlessly. “..Why would I?”

“I just,” you mumble, your voice faint to your own ears. “...I want to stay like this for a while.”

AZ always slunk around saying odd, somewhat foreboding things, so you never questioned that night on the rooftop when the blast from Ange shimmered all around you like falling stars. 

He smiled at you that night like nothing was wrong, made everyone a soupy pasta dish with a side of red-dyed Poffins, and went to bed with a quiet goodnight and a wave of his hand. He’d always had a mild, withdrawn presence for a man so intimidatingly large. 

You never suspected that he was dying.

The night he passed, it rained so heavily it sounded as though the sky was falling onto the roof of the hotel. It was loud and intense and unnervingly violent. Against the tin tiles pounded a hundred thousand footsteps—thudding down like a funeral march.

You woke in the inky darkness to Urbain’s weeping—wailing, thick, and halting sounds—to Lida’s socks scraping frantically across the carpet, and to Floette hovering quietly next to your bed. 

Why she’d come to you first, you were unsure. She simply stared at you, her small black eyes beady and flat, reflecting nothing. Outside the dripping shroud beyond the window, rain streaked through the haggard, tattered skeleton of Prism Tower. It wrapped its charred black rhubarb around the fog and the rain dragged through it as though it was melting.

The world sounded like death. Your heart started to swallow itself. All the while you wished for silence, but the rain just kept pounding and pounding. Urbain’s next cry shattered through the sky like thunder.

The whole funeral felt easy and quiet. AZ had set it up ahead of time, and he’d even had Naveen take his measurements under the guise of commissioning a new suit.

“..Who plans for their death ahead of time?” You ask at the ceiling hours afterwards, a light, cold rain dusting over the hotel’s roof.

“AZ.” Naveen replies quietly. He lays on your hotel room’s bed next to you, Lida and Urbain sprawled on either side of him.

“He was always pretty cryptic, wasn’t he?” Lida murmurs fondly, undoing her neatly-styled hair. Her black clothes cut a deep crease into your cream comforter. “Once he told me ‘I was destined for greatness, but my road to success will always be paved with deep pitfalls…’”

“Like what the hell does that mean?” Urbain finishes for her, fiddling with a lapel on his suit.

“Wear really sturdy shoes?” Naveen suggests.

The four of you chuckle, the noise a warbling and crackling chorus. It dissolves into a deep, sinking silence. Outside, rain continues to fall, casting the room in a dark shade of blue. 

AZ had been the one most incentivized to rebuild after Ange’s disaster. He loved Lumiose with a love only one who’d lived here three thousand years could love. Get up, my dear Team MZ, he’d say to you all at this moment. Lumiose needs you.

Nothing has sunk in yet. Not the skeleton of Ange’s form, not the sandy haze of those memories, not AZ’s huge, remarkable throne of a grave, its cold stone base utterly covered in dew-speckled flowers.

Urbain sniffles, and you say nothing as you gently take his hand.

“I feel…pretty awful,” He whispers, squeezing your palm.

“I feel pretty awful too.” Lida admits to the dark. “I think I’ll feel awful for a good long while.”

Floette coos, hovering at the end of the bed. You see Naveen shift beside you in the corner of your eye, blueness curling over the crown of his head. 

You close your eyes, listening to your friend’s shaking breaths, hearing Lida’s hitch as she quietly begins to cry.

“We’ve still got each other.” Naveen states in the darkness.

“..Yeah.” Urban murmurs. “Yeah, we do.”

I heard about what happened. I’m sorry about your loss.

Multiple days pass where Lida weeps in the kitchen. Where Naveen won’t come out of his room. Where you have to remind Urbain to sleep as he throws himself into Infinite ZA Royale matches with a fiery ferocity that burns him to the ground.

Floette follows you around; Urbain grows upset that she’s not following him instead. You try to calm him with a smile that feels tight and unsteady, and he grins back, yet refuses to speak with her. 

In the night Floette watches you, her beady gaze dark and empty. The first month you struggle to pay off the Hotel’s rent. You feel AZ’s heavy hand ghosting the top of your head. Do with this place as you wish.

“I don’t want to sell the hotel,” Urbain tells you thinly. “I’m sorry. We can’t. It just feels wrong to sell it.”

We haven’t had a battle in a while. Need to let off some steam?

Naveen tries to return to his grandmother’s house, yet darts back into the hotel two hours later with tear streaks cutting into his furious frown. Lida clutches his arm and asks him to tell her what’s wrong. He shrugs off her hand and holes himself up in his room again. 

Urbain won’t look at you now, that false smile carved into his face. Lida weeps in your arms one night and whispers that she can’t dance anymore. It’s just a dream, she admits, it’s too painful.

I want you to remember me in snow, AZ whispers. Your hands press into his letter. A pokéball sits lonely on your desk as a cold rain keeps falling.

I still haven’t heard from you. It’s very disappointing.  

“Don’t follow me,” You tell Floette, exhausted. “Please. Urbain can’t take it. You chose him, didn’t you? Not me,”

I expect you to respond to our daily texts. You were the one who insisted on these in the first place, if you can recall.

You don’t want to make another breakfast that no one will eat. You don’t want to knock on Naveen’s door for another non-answer. You don’t want to see Urbain’s exhausted eyes, Floette’s empty gaze when you shut the door to keep her from following—you don’t want to wipe away Lida’s tears with a smile that feels like it’s tearing your face apart.

AZ left you a Lucario. It rejects you; it won’t follow your orders. Perhaps you aren’t protecting this city properly. 

The fury inside of you burns. You must become worthy of AZ’s final gift, if nothing else.

Don’t you dare do anything stupid.

You exhale over the top of your coffee, letting it waft steam against your face in the frigid air as you sit on the cold concrete stairs. L sits beside you, his knobby knees pointing outward like a Syther’s bulky arms as he plucks the cap off of his to-go cup.

“Thank you for the drink.” He states. You shake your head wordlessly.

Your visits to Nouveau café feel somehow more meaningful, Grisham sending you a quiet look and getting started on your usual without a word—Griselle bowing her head to you in greeting with a small, genuine smile that’s jarring on her face. 

You dutifully don’t inform the pair that you’d ordered the extra Flamethrower Roast for Team Flare’s infamous ex-leader. You don’t think that’d go over well.

“Do you think you’re up to the task?” L prompts. “The two Legendaries, Xerneas & Yveltal…Zygrade informs me that they will descend upon this city in due time.”

He’s become somewhat of a prophet, translating Zygrade’s words as thanks for bringing him back to life. Each time he brings news of the world’s destruction, of the unease that lies beyond the surface of this city, and each time he tasks you with a way to save it. 

You wonder what he sees inside of his empty mind. Unlike AZ, he doesn’t remember his misdeeds, but like AZ, the consequences still ripple through the world all around him. 

During your battle, L’s other eye shone with an otherworldly light. He spoke of a fire still burning inside of him. That fire sounds as unnerving as that recording you’d heard in the lab, its red glow eerie in the dark.

Passerby stride by, shuffling through the snow, their forms cutting shapes into the pure-white world. Meanwhile, the blizzard curls the wind into whirling spirals, ones that rattle the empty branches of trees until they sound like the clattering of bone.

You see an explosion on the television in a dim hospital room. Snow tangles into a wreath of pine. Then a dark shadow crosses in the corner of your eye, its gaze glowing gold, sharp and probing. I owe him my life.

“Yeah,” You say, pressing down some snow with your boot. “I’m up to it.”

You feel L’s eye on you. “...Thank you.”

Zygrade curls up in the snow at your feet, their dark black scales shimmering, snowflakes simply sliding off of their smooth back. You feel their gaze but dutifully ignore it, despite the pulsing of their Mega Stone burning a hole through your trench coat’s pocket alongside Lucario’s eerily silent pokéball.

“You said you’re immortal, right?” You mention suddenly.

“Yes.” L returns. “Like AZ, I am cursed by the Ultimate Weapon to wander this earth for three thousand years.”

“Don’t call it a curse,” You return harshly. “Those pokémon didn’t sacrifice themselves for a curse. You…” 

You rub a hand through your snow-crusted hair, watching snowflakes catch on your slow-blinking lashes. Your tone softens. “...There’s someone who cares about you even though they’ll never forgive you. This world’s full of as much love as it is ‘grime.’ So try to love your life,” You sigh heavily. “At least a little.”

“...You are someone who has faced death many times,” L returns. “I will take your words to heart.”

I will heed by your words, whisper the rattling branches. My dear friend.

It’s been two months since Ange carved a hole into the center of this city, dragging its tendrils across awnings and brick-laid streets. In the deep winter snow, it haunts Lumiose with its rotting remains, its decaying bits of black petals crushed beneath old pieces of scaffolding.

Ange—AZ’s creation. A monstrosity he’d built with his own two hands, just like the Ultimate Weapon that L used to try and wipe out half of humanity’s population five years ago. 

A bronze key sits heavy in your pocket. Piles of snow sting your fingers and glitter as they pile into your palm. You see soft, silky strands of white hair sift through your hands, laying over your lap like a heavy, corded blanket.

Remember me in snow.

“You know, AZ wasn’t a good person,” you whisper into the cold air.

Your cheeks grow warm and damp. Snow falls in the silence, a clear and pure blanket; it layers over the streets all around you, turning it into a world both pure and beautiful. 

L says nothing as your breath hitches, as you press your face into your hand. Snow continues to fall, smothering everything on the horizon.

Come to the Syndicate. Now.

When you arrive in Corbeau’s dim, warm office it feels as though hundreds of years have passed, the image of his intense expression poking over the rooftop like a Diglett the only memory you can conjure. It makes you want to laugh, but you can hardly fit a smile onto your face.

Your arm hurts, bruised from your recent battle with Xerneas. Yet you use it to carry three perfectly placed to-go cups from Nouveau café. Unfortunately, this doesn’t offset Corbeau’s fury, which boils silently at the other end of the room as he simmers behind his desk. Even Philippe appears quietly unnerved.

“You haven’t been answering my texts.” Corbeau states sharply, each word laced with venom. “When you know very well we’ve been watching you. I always know exactly what you’re doing and I always know exactly where you are.”

Wow, he must be really pissed if he’s defaulting to his usual threats. You lift the drink carrier in your hands, your voice low and sounding exhausted to your own ears. “..Brought you coffee.”

Corbeau slams his hand onto his desk and launches up from his chair. A pen rolls across its shiny surface, smooth unlike the rippled skin of his brow. “Sit down.”

Wordlessly, you drag yourself across the room and collapse onto Corbeau’s creased, faux-leather couch, setting the sloshing tray of coffee onto the low mahogany table. Philippe strides over and plucks his usual from the cardboard, then sticks a straw into the top of it.

Corbeau follows, his every stride slow and smooth like a Venipede cutting through deep grooves of sand. He sits before you, silent, and you feel your shoulders hike to your ears with a deep, burning feeling that tightens your throat.

“Philippe.” Corbeau states flatly, still braced forward. “Out.”

Philippe immediately leaves the room, sipping his whipped-cream-topped double-shot mocha frappucino as he goes.

Once the door shuts Corbeau deflates. You stiffen, startled, as he slouches over his legs with a long, frustrated sigh. 

“I suppose I’m being too hard on you,” He states. You stare at the top of his bowed head, at his clasped hands hanging over his knees. “You’re in mourning.”

“..I’m real sorry.” You say finally.

“If you’re ‘real sorry,’ ensure that you answer my texts.” He returns as he lifts his head. Then his sharp tone flattens out. “..I worry about you, you know."

You watch as he plucks his ice coffee from the tray and takes a slow sip. Far behind him, dozing in a plush, fancy bed, Scoliopede curls into herself, one of her yellow eyes briefly opening in interest before she sinks back into a doze.

“..What were you thinking?” Corbeau asks you genuinely, his voice crackling like the ice inside his cup. “Taking on the legendary Xerneas all by yourself.”

“It’s fine,” You drag a hand through your hair, your bruised arm limp at your side. “It’s over now.”

Corbeau’s unimpressed glare burns into the side of your face as he barely restrains himself from slamming his cup onto the table. It still makes a loud sound when he sets it down, the liquid inside it sloshing audibly. “Don’t avoid the question. Answer me.”

“...AZ gave me a Lucario,” You admit suddenly, then swallow in the heavy air. “He still doesn’t trust me yet. Then L asked me to…” You pause. “I thought quelling the legendries with my own power would help Lucario learn to trust me.”

Corbeau pauses, taking this in. “..Well? Does your Lucario trust you now?”

“No.” You chuckle sardonically, staring down at the plush carpet beneath your scuffed boots. “He just thinks I’m a big ol’ idiot.”

“Because you are.” 

You press your hand into your throbbing forehead and your eyes briefly slide shut. “..Yeah. I guess so.”

You stare down at your nicked, calloused hands. A violence rumbles through these endless days of the city’s reconstruction. You still feel lost. There are so many things you still don’t understand.

“It’s been rough, hasn’t it,” Corbeau comments across from you, his words toneless as though merely observational. “Along with all the physical labor that Quasartico lady has been forcing on us and the Infinite ZA-Royale crap...I imagine Team MZ has been hit pretty hard.”

“It’s definitely not great,” You admit begrudgingly, cracking open your heavy eyelids. “The team’s fallin’ apart. I dunno how to hold ‘em together.”

“It’s not on you to shoulder that burden.” Corbeau returns, his gaze mild. “You’re not even Team MZ’s leader.”

“I know,” You scrub your face with a sigh, craning your head back into the couch’s stiff cushions. “I just..I don’t want to lose ‘em. They’re my friends.”

A silence stretches as Corbeau takes a sip of his drink; you hear the crinkling of the ice, but ignore your own Flamethrower Roast on the table. It wafts steam into the room, warm and untouched.

“You take too much onto yourself,” Corbeau decides flatly, as though your flaws have been laid out like laundry across the crinkled faux-leather of his couch. “I’ve learned that sometimes you must rely on others even if you don’t want to.”

He leans toward you at the end of your vision, propping himself over his knees. “And you don’t want to, do you? That seems hypocritical, based on what you told your little friend Urbain all those months ago.”

He seems unashamed by his bout of eavesdropping now; you almost preferred when he was all awkward about it. You throw your arm over your eyes and grumble something nonsensical even to you. 

Then you flop to the side and toss your useless legs over the armrest of the couch in a lazy, reclining sprawl.

“Then,” You say into the room. You swallow and force the words out; they feel dry and scratchy like sand in your mouth. “Then let me stay here for a while.”

Corbeau does not respond, instead picking up his iced drink. His silence sounds like a gentle acceptance.

You could fall asleep here. This feels like the safest spot. The walls are a fortress, the guards like knights in suits of armor. There’s nobody you have to smile for. You can just lay here and rest for a bit.

A crinkle of fabric. It seems that Corbeau still hasn’t moved, quietly sitting across from you. You can see him in your mind’s eye, faded in a dream: smiling crookedly, tilting his head until a slicked streak of dark hair shifts over his left eye. “..Are you here just to nap on my couch?”

You mumble something nonsensical, unwilling to open your eyes. Footsteps shuffle then pad against the carpet. The cushions dip somewhere beyond your head.

You feel him poke one of your hoop earrings, and when you crack open your eye, you see it shift with a reflected glimmer of gold light. Your eyes slide shut again.

“Our favorite little do-gooder is so lazy,” He mutters somewhere above your head. His voice sounds low like a crackling flame, all blustery and warm. You can feel his gaze on you, layering over you like the gentle press of a blanket. “..Are you going to fall asleep here?”

“Don’t mind me,” You mumble.

“How adorable.” Corbeau returns without infliction. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, and that’s impossible to think about when you’re this tired. “Really, you astound me sometimes.”

In the dream, you remember his arms around you as comets melted from the half-lit sky. It was nice having someone hold you up for a while. You wonder if you could ask him to hug you again, but that’d ‘prolly be a strange ask, even for you.

“Get up,” His voice coaxes above your head.

You grumble beneath your arm with an annoying feeling of deja-vu.

“Get up,” Repeats Corbeau sternly, his voice much louder. “Now. I have something for you.”

The couch shifts. You hear him huff frustratedly as he stands, his loafers scuffing against the thin carpet. You sit up, your stomach swiveling, and warily open your eyes to find him standing just a pace away with his arms wide open.

Fury, taught and hot, suddenly shrivels in your chest as your hands instinctively clench into tight, painful fists.

“I can walk just fine,” You state bitingly.

Corbeau seems unaffected by your tone, his expression flat and unfaltering. “I wasn’t trying to help you walk.”

He holds his hands out higher. 

Your fingers loosen then fall lax. You exhale heavily. Then you shift to stand, plodding deliberately toward him, your frown pursing with a dipping confusion. 

You hesitate just a foot away. Corbeau steps a pace closer to close the gap between you, suddenly close enough the tips of his shoes brush your dirty old boots. You can’t lift your head to meet his eye, feeling strange and exposed, as though a thousand spools of thread are unraveling from every inch of you—shimmering as they all swirl to rest down onto the floor at your feet.

Corbeau gathers you up again. His hands gradually wrap around your arms. Then around your waist—pulling you ever-closer, making you turn your cheek away with a bashful, buzzing feeling. Undeterred, he hums and embraces you.

Your eyelids flutter haltingly as he holds you tightly. After a long, fluttering beat, you finally open your mouth to speak.

“..I know I do dumb stuff sometimes,” You admit quietly. “And I know my body’s weak. But I’m still gonna carve my way forward with my own power.”

“I understand,” Corbeau returns steadily, gently patting your back. “There’s something special about getting somewhere on your own two feet.”

It feels like he’s just reached inside of you and ripped your heart right out of your chest. Your arms lift shakily then wrap tightly around him, as though he’s the only sturdy thing in this watery world.

“..You know, since I’ve been watching you,” He murmurs against your hair, “I know you better than anyone else.”

“What…what an ominous thing to say,” You mumble over his shoulder.

He chuckles. “Lean on me.”

You hesitate, then slump more of your weight into him.

“Not good enough.” He hums. “Lean on me more.”

“..But you’ll fall over.” 

He chuckles. “It’s cute, your frustration.”

You squeeze him tightly in protest, ducking your face into the sleek, smooth shoulder of his black jacket. The fabric muffles all light and sound.

“Good, good,” Corbeau hums, patting your back softly, his voice gusting close over the shell of your ear. “Just like that.”

When you sink into him, the room melts into golden lights and soft brown shadows. Your eyelids loll shut as his fingers thread through your hair. 

Perhaps the answers had been here all along, in this damn warm office. Corbeau has no idea, you think, how nice his hugs are, or how much you like the sound of his voice. How much you wanna tell him everything—how much you wanna share coffee with him every day.

His calloused hand rests over the nape of your neck, scraping lightly against the fabric there. Then as you nudge your face closer into his shoulder, his thumb slips beneath the collar of your turtleneck and rubs in small circles, as though enamored by the warmth of your skin. 

Corbeau’s breath brushes your cheek—cloves and coffee. You can faintly hear the soft, shuffling sounds of people moving throughout the complex below. 

Unsurprisingly, you feel yourself starting to doze off, Corbeau’s fingers tickling as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. He fiddles with one of your gold earrings, adjusting it with care.

It’s then that you find your answer. It’s a stupid answer, but it just might work.

“Why,” Team Flare’s Ex-Leader, Lysandre, pauses at your side, appearing utterly baffled for the first time ever. “Why have you brought me here?”

Lida once said he’d easily win an award in a Cryptic Old Man Contest. It’s refreshing to be the one confusing him for once. Even as he asks you a markedly specific question for once, you refuse to answer him, your gaze remaining on the pokémon at his side.

You pat Zygrade on the head; they bark happily as you toss their floppy black ears back and forth. “Hey there, weird puppy. Long time no see.”

“I will ask you again. What are we doing here?"

“You feelin’ any better?” You scratch under Zygrade’s ear. “That battle was pretty tough, wasn’t it?”

“Zye!” The legendary returns, leaning into your touch.

“That’s a mighty loud bark. You’re sure soundin’ better, I guess.”

L’s shoulders stiffen. “I kindly ask that you answer me.”

You swing open the door wordlessly. Zygrade trots happily at your shuffling heels. A familiar head of blush-tinted hair turns toward you at your entrance.

Urbain stares at you, Floette hovering quietly at his side. His gaze moves to L, who’s beaten up and looking pretty damn bad. Surely he’ll be a good motivator to get your ever-helpful friend back on his feet. As Urbain said before, he can’t ignore someone in need.

Perhaps your team leader senses your intentions, as he looks at you for a good long while, his eyes wide and welling. Then he lunges forward and hugs you tightly.

You chuckle, stumbling backwards, and pat between his shuddering shoulder blades. L stares at you both with an even more baffled expression. Urbain pulls back and smiles at you, and you grin in return. A gratitude shimmers in his deep blue eyes, the expression mirrored by Floette at his side.

“Urbain, mind gettin’ the med kit?” You ask him fondly.

Urbain salutes playfully. “On it!”

As he turns and rushes into the kitchen, you turn to L solemnly. You conjure Corbeau's sharp posture in your mind, folding your hands neatly behind your back and measuredly meeting L’s single silver eye.

“Listen,” you tell him frankly. “You be nice to my friends, alright? Zygrade an’ I are givin’ you a brand-new task.”

“Zye!” Zygrade confirms at your side, bouncing jovially on their hind legs. A Zygrade cell melts out of their neck, slaps wetly onto the carpet, and then hurriedly darts back into their side again.

“..And what would that be?” L returns cautiously.

“You, L,” You step toward the hulking man and point at him between his eyes. “Will be Hotel Z’s new concierge.”

“I,” L pauses cautiously, staring at your sharp finger. “I don’t think..you recall that I have lost my memories, yes? I am certainly not suited for such a task.”

You drop your hand, unfettered and completely unaffected by the flat look on his face. “Well, you said you’d gotten at least some of your memories back, yeah? An’ Corbeau said you were real successful five years ago, so don’t worry too much. I’m sure you’ll be great.”

L blinks at you, then slowly stares down at his hands. “..I,”

A ding from the elevator interrupts his words. Both you and L lift your heads at the sound of ambling footsteps.

“Oh! L? Good to see you again!” Greets Lida as she strides out of the elevator. Naveen shuffles at her side; looks like he’d heard the news from Urbain and had come out of his room for once. 

He avoids your eye, fiddling with his cardigan’s oversized sleeves. “..So you’ll have L run the place, huh? That certainly sounds better than having us do it.”

“Mhm,” You return. “Then we’ll be able to keep our home.”

“Yeah,” Lida returns, her voice small. Then it rises, her volume fluctuating, her smile brightening and turning up her face. “Yeah!” 

“Team MZ, I don’t think you all understand what you are doing,” L states at your side, his gaze harsh. “I’ve done awful things. Even now, I feel the ashes of those flames flickering in the corners of my mind. Though I no longer remember them, the events of the past can no longer be undone. I caused a catastrophe and ruined many lives. Yet you ask me to be the face of this hotel—?"

“We’ll just cut your greasy hair or something.” You return.

Lida nods. “You’re super old, so nobody’ll recognize you. Don’t worry about it.”

L squints his single eye.

“Really, don’t worry,” Lida pumps her fists encouragingly with a sheepish grin. “We’ve got a lot of experience with folks with regrets.”

“Don’t get us wrong,” Naveen tacks on mildly, his gaze weighted. “We’re not forgiving you for what you’ve done, and I doubt the rest of Kalos will either. Accountability is important. We’re just giving you a purpose…” He sends L an appraising stare. “...‘Cause it looks like you need one.”

L softens. His shoulders lower into a deep slouch as he stares into the lobby’s stretching rooms, the patchy curtains mirroring the stitches lining his old coat. You’re sure that Naveen will make him a new one soon enough.

Then the immortal man finally smiles. He chuckles to himself, the sound quiet and warm. “..What blunt children you are.” 

He sighs quietly. “When I look at all of you, I see the forms of formidable trainers, standing before me in opposition. My insides burn with guilt when I look at them, as they hold tight to their beautiful convictions and beliefs.”

“I was wrong to turn to cruelty. I will live the rest of my life trying to atone.” L gazes at you, and his single eye slides shut in acceptance. “So I will stay here, as you wish. I will become one who gives instead of takes. I suppose that I had lost…the moment I gave in to those flames.”

Urbain suddenly darts back into the room, appearing furious. “Hey! Who the heck replaced all the emergency stitching needles with Canari merch?!”

Naveen, unabashed, raises his hand.

“Lysandre is working at Hotel Z?”

“Mhm,” You return, folding in the sleeves of your freshly-laundered sweatshirt. Your Rotom phone hovers next to your bed, glowing with a single stark white light in the warmly-lit room. “Found ‘im out on the street—seems like he had a rough go of it. An’ when I brought ‘im back here, well—,”

“Let me guess. Urbain set him up with the job?”

“You know him so well,” you muse. You suppose a Loan Sharpedo would have to know his clients. 

You set the sweatshirt down onto a pile with the rest of your folded clothes. “L’s a bit cagey—won’t tell us what his goal is, if he has one. But I think he’ll be stayin’ here a while. That’s just the feeling I get.”

You pause, lifting a plain t-shirt into the air. “..Naveen said we were ‘givin’ him a purpose.’ But I think he’s givin’ us a purpose, too. The air’s lightened up around here.”

“That’s good.” Corbeau’s voice returns, the words short yet warm. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

You hear him rustling around with something over the phone. “It also gives me a reason to help out your Hotel. I owe Lysandre my life, after all.”

“Don’t go too crazy. Urbain won’t accept it,” You chuckle. “Not that I mind in the slightest.”

You hear him laugh in return.

“I was thinkin,’ well,” You smooth your hand down over the shirt. “Since L is here, maybe you could visit the Hotel an’ see him face-to-face. I doubt he’ll remember you, but…maybe just seein’ him will lighten up that ‘shadow in your heart.’”

A silence falls, so long and heavy that you hesitate. “..Sorry if I’m pokin’ a wound.”

“No.” Corbeau declares abruptly, his voice firm and loud enough that you briefly startle. “There’s no need to apologize. That sounds like an excellent idea.”

You imagine him leaning his head into his hand, that oddly sharp smile on his face, backlit by the harsh light of his ornate battle room. “And now I have an excuse to come see you.”

“Hm. For a battle? Or another cup of coffee?”

“..I’ll admit that your coffee was surprisingly good.”

“I’m just full of surprises,”

“That you are.”

You laugh. He always indulges your nonsensical proclamations. Even with his disembodied voice floating in this room, you can imagine his powerful, all-engulfing presence standing beside you—his narrowed eyes, his tilting jaw, his wide glasses casting faint reflections onto the wall. 

“What are you doing right now?” He asks you, his voice sounding faint and relaxed. Suddenly the properly-poised man in your mind lounges on your bed like a Slowpoke, his arm tucked behind his head.

“Foldin’ laundry,” You return in the same casual tone, smiling at his imagined shadow. “Nothin’ special.”

“Your discount wardrobe from Pasage du Palais? I’m surprised that it hasn’t fallen apart. Let me guess, you’re folding that massive pullover with the hole in it?”

“What are you doing right now?” You avoid the question entirely, reaching over and flipping your pullover over to hide the hole.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would. That’s why I’m asking.”

Corbeau only chuckles snidely in response. Lucario sits at the end of your bed, still watching you and listening quietly, his gaze weighted yet warm. 

You reach over and ruffle his head. He makes a low, rumbling sound like a purr, then flops onto his back, finally dropping his guard.

You try not to react, your hands shaking as you fold a sweater. Corbeau’s voice fills room 202 as he tells you about his day. It settles something deep inside of you, warm and pulsing like a star.

“..I’m gonna go to bed now,” You say eventually, your voice strangely soft even to your own ears. “You should too, Corbeau. It’s gettin’ real late.”

“Who are you to mind my schedule?”

“Your friend?” You raise a brow at the phone with a tired, pulling smile.

Corbeau chuckles. “Touché,”

“Night, Corbeau.” You say, the words pulling out of your chest as you stare into the empty, inky sky beyond the windows. Clouds muffle the horizon. “An’ thank you. I always love talkin’ to you.”

A long pause. Lucario curls up next to your pillow, his fluffy tail wagging and thumping into the sheets.

“Well.” Corbeau states finally, his voice fading and fluctuating. “..I feel the same.”

As always, he hangs up on you first.

You stand beside Corbeau at the base of Galerie de Lune. Corbeau had informed you that this is where he’d bought his faux-leather loafers, and then he’d informed you that you could use a thing or two from the shops here. 

After your unimpressed huff and your even more unimpressed face, he’d laughed, gazing up into the tall glass dome above the mall and telling you to be careful. It’s difficult to shrug this off, as Acting Director Mapel’s texts regarding ‘Yvelta’s energy readings’ keep blowing up your phone.

Nouveau café owners Griselle and Grisham arrive not long after.

“Brought you a nasty cup of coffee, fresh from our illegal food truck.” Griselle greets flatly. “One of those Flamethrower roasts that you like. Tips would be nice, since we’re in the red again.”

Grisham lifts the beautiful orange cup with a raised brow. “...Griselle, I wish you wouldn’t be so candid in your sales pitch.”

“We saved the whole damn city with her.” The waitress rolls her eyes. “I can be candid if I want to be.”

“Awesome!” You exclaim at the sight of a warm cup of coffee. You reach for it, grinning. “Thanks so mu—,”

Griselle abruptly lunges forward and locks you into a headlock. At your muffled, startled grunt, she digs her knuckles into your scalp and starts noogieing you with such ferocity that you’re nearly pushed into the ground.

“Ah—Jeeze!” You yelp. “What the heck—?!”

You writhe beneath Griselle’s iron-rod hold, flailing as she barks a laugh, but neither of your other companions make any move to help you. Corbeau only smiles in amusement, while Grisham sighs and adjusts the coffee cup in his hand.

“You’ll be saving our city once again, won’t you?” Griselle finally stops creating an Electric Terrain in your hair. She grins at you sharply, holding you close beneath her arm, and her smile takes on a teasing edge. “Good girl.”

Corbeau abruptly strides forward. You feel Griselle’s shoulders twitch. Then her arm yanks to the side, and you straighten your spine only to find Corbeau’s pale, white-knuckled hand wrapped firmly around the waitress’ wrist, holding it away and aloft.

“Hey.” Griselle states, her tone lowering into a fiery growl. Her eyes flash behind her glasses, her lips peeling away from her teeth. She leans down over Corbeau like a Pyroar about to strike. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Corbeau meets her gaze evenly; you spot a vein bulge above his brow, his eyes wide and furious. He doesn’t answer her, his frown deep and his lips pressed tightly shut.

“Hm.” Grisham squints open one sharp eye. “..I did find it odd that the Rust Syndicate boss had tagged along on this little excursion.”

“I don’t recommend making an enemy of me,” Corbeau murmurs thinly. “I suggest keeping your hands off of her, and treating the both of us with the respect that we deserve.”

Griselle’s expression sharpens. “And who are you to tell me what to do?”

Corbeau goes completely still. A sudden cold runs down your spine at the contorting expression on his face. Grisham opens his mouth, likely to give the hot-tempered Griselle another good scolding, but you step forward and speak for him.

“Woah, hey, ‘nough of this,” You laugh nervously, holding up your hands as you shuffle in between them. Corbeau yanks his hand away from Griselle’s wrist, his expression flattening out as though he’d forgotten you were here. “You both are my friends, so I want you to get along, ‘kay—?”

A loud, high-pitched gasp cuts through your words. “—It’s you!”

You turn to face a recognizable young boy with dark, curly hair and a web-patterned beanie, his caramel skin warming as his breath comes out in excited white bursts. 

The boy you’d helped during one of Corbeau’s ‘unsavory tasks.’ Though now, as he stands before you, a lovable, tiny Spinarak crawls up the back of his blue puffer jacket and onto his shoulder.

“Woah!” You exclaim, a huge smile lifting your face. “What a cute Spinarak!”

The boy’s shoulders hike to his ears as his expression spreads into an even-brighter grin. “You remember me!”

“Of course, how could I forget a cool kid like you?” You shuffle forward, one hand in your pocket. “Though—how’d you get over here? The mall’s off-limits at the moment, ya’know?”

“Spinarak showed us a sneaky way,” The boy returns. You glance over his shoulder and find a familiar trio of kids behind him. A girl, the boy’s sister, smiles and waves at you cheerfully, her high pigtails bobbing with the motion.

“..That’s so freakin’ awesome,” You breathe. Corbeau’s having his grunts patrol the area and keep basically everyone out—the fact that four ten year olds managed to sneak past them is both impressive and hilarious. “I bet you four will be killer at the Infinite ZA-Royale.”

The boy’s eyes sparkle as Spinarak wiggles, appearing emboldened. “Really?! You really think so—?!”

Corbeau sighs behind you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s excellent to see you again, kid. But you and your friends need to head back—this area’s off-limits for a reason.”

“Aw, but,” the boy wrings his hands sadly. “I wanna chat a bit longer..”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Corbeau strides forward, crouches down, and pats the boy’s shoulder with a kind smile. “I promise we’ll drop by later. You and your friends need to stay behind that wall we set up, okay?”

The boy looks up at him with bright, big eyes. “Are there gonna be pretty fireworks again?”

“Maybe if you stay extra safe.”

“Okay!” The boy exclaims, excitedly pumping his fists. His Spinarak chitters on his shoulder. “We’ll stay behind those guys in weird purple suits! I promise!”

“Excellent,” Corbeau praises, standing and tucking his hands behind his back. “Take good care of your friends and that Spinarak of yours. I’m counting on you.”

“I will!”

The boy runs back to his trio of friends, his shoulders rolled back and now markedly more confident. You watch him chatter to them and take his sister’s hands, a huge grin on his face, and the four of them run off to wherever Corbeau set up his Rust Syndicate Grunt Wall.

The concept sounds hilarious—almost as hilarious as the Rust Syndicate Ladder of Terror. You’re unable to stop the small chuckle from escaping your lips, the sound prompting Corbeau’s gaze to flicker toward you. 

Though recently, he hasn’t looked peeved by the sounds of your laughter. He wears a different, more relaxed expression instead.

“You’re good with kids, huh?” You tell him warmly, fully expecting him to deny it. 

“Well, I was once a kid myself,” he replies, a small, crooked grin on his face.

You smile in return. “Good answer.”

Corbeau casually ruffles the back of your head. His touch remains gentle yet methodical, and you realize he’s smoothing down the mess Griselle made of your hair.

“...Hm.”

The inquisitive noise draws your gaze to the side. Both of Grisham’s deep, bright eyes are open, gazing between you and Corbeau; he smiles crookedly as though he sees something there.

“You’re quite charming, aren’t you?” He tells you kindly. His eyes don’t leave Corbeau, as though gauging his reaction; Corbeau’s brow spasms in a furious twitch. 

Grisham’s smile widens imperceptibly.

“Of course I am,” you reply to him, grinning crookedly. “I’m freakin’ adorable.”

Corbeau’s shoulders relax. You huff and pat him on the shoulder, your touch seeming to incentivize him to ease up further. What the heck is wrong with him today?

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Griselle mirrors your thoughts. “You’ve got some serious anger issues.”

“You’re the last person who should be saying that,” You tell her playfully.

Griselle swings her arm back and you stumble away with a dizzying laugh. Grisham, politely smiling, stops her furious strike with one arm, the other barely keeping hold of your sloshing drink.

You pluck it from his hand with an amused quirk of your brow. Griselle writhes furiously as you take a huge sip. It’s delicious.

Corbeau shoves his glasses up his nose with a frustrated huff. You doubt he takes kindly to Grisham and Griselle not showing him any fear nor respect, but he uncharacteristically does not comment on it, his narrowed eyes watching Grisham cautiously. 

“...Shall we get down to business?” He prompts flatly. “That pesky legendary could show up at any moment, and I, for one, am not excited about cleaning up another huge mess.”

He must be referring to all the restoration from Ange. You’re not particularly inclined to repeat that either. “..Yeah. As per usual, I’ll be takin’ Yveltal on myself. Grisham and Griselle will be providin’ backup nearby.” 

You turn toward Corbeau, cradling your warm coffee in your hands. “You an’ your grunts will be holdin’ down the fort. Just make sure no passerby get caught in the fray.”

“We’ll keep everyone away from the fight,” Corbeau nods solemnly.

“I plan to keep Griselle and I aloft on Charizard’s back, so we may take stock of the battle from the air,” Grisham states, folding his arms stiffly. “This will also allow us to contain any debris or projectiles.”

“So basically, go wild!” Griselle grins at you sharply. “Don’t worry about a damn thing and focus on pacifying ‘the one that takes.’ We’ll handle everything else.”

You nod, adjusting your coffee cup in your hands. “Thanks. Then—,”

The ground leaps upward. 

You sputter, nearly dropping your drink, and feel Corbeau’s hand latch onto your upper arm, gripping you so tightly it nearly hurts. Once you’ve dragged your gaze back to the pulsing Galerie de Lune, you see a dark shadow crawl over the shining glass room, warping with crimson energy. 

Yveltal cranes its head back with an earth-shattering cry.

“Hell,” Corbeau hisses beside you, his hand sliding away from your arm.

“Speak of Yveltal, and it shall appear,” Grisham tacks on forebodingly.

You drain your coffee in one long swig, the liquid warming you to the tips of your fingers and the caffeine buzzing through your veins. It’s like they set these damn beans on fire with a Flamethrower. 

“I’m countin’ on you all,” You say as you shuffle toward the raucous noise, tossing your cup into a nearby bin. A few squawking Pidgey flutter away from the reverberating sounds up above. “And thanks for the coffee, Griselle and Grisham.”

“Least we can do to ‘pay respect to our savior,’” Griselle glares at Corbeau as she says this, her hand clasped around a pokéball strapped to her belt.

“You,” you return, “Need to chill the heck out.”

Griselle playfully punches your shoulder as she strides forward. You laugh loudly, the sound melding into Yveltal’s haunting cries. 

Grisham releases Charizard from his pokéball at the same time that you let out Gardevoir. She trills as she swirls into existence, lifting her feet from the ground in a psychic wave.

“Let’s do this,” Grisham proclaims. 

You grin. “Sure thing.”

“Don’t do anything reckless!” Corbeau shouts at your back. “Or I’ll have your head—!”

You race toward the nearby holovator without another word, zipping up onto the roof in a flash of neon-yellow light. 

Yveltal lifts its head and meets your gaze, its ice blue eyes wide and chilling; your spine sinks with a deep, heavy, and sticky feeling. You leap forward up onto the dome regardless, Gardevoir following fast at your side.

Yveltal howls into the wind, spreads its dark, pulsating wings, and unleashes a crackling attack. The ball of light whirls with shadows and drips with something blood red. It smells like death, like crinkling rust.

“GO!” You shout at Gardevoir as you stumble to dodge. “Moonblast—!”

The Mega Bracelet on your wrist burns with a heavy burden. Gardevoir blooms before your eyes. Her dress flutters outward as her body transforms, droplets of energy lifting upward like dewdrops dripping from bright-white petals. 

You see a desert. A warm hand. A room filled with soft, freshly-washed sheets. Gardevoir drifts forward, then lifts her hand, bringing down a meteorite of energy that hurtles from the air.

It strikes Yveltal in the side, knocking it back onto the huge glass dome, which shudders worryingly with the impact, its metal frame creaking. 

“Gardevoir!” You shout, cold air stinging your teeth. “AGAIN!”

You’ve gotten good at running. You focus on that feeling—that very sticky feeling—which makes it easier to move your leg, left first, then your right follows—a too-stiff limb—and you pretend your foot is hitting the ground, you remember what that feels like. It’s not too difficult. You continue remembering it. 

Run, shouts your own mind, reverberating and loud—run! Gardevoir twirls through the air, sunlight sparkling into her glittering shroud. Yveltal shrinks back with a growl, and you shout your next order into the pulsing beam, darkness rippling into the glass all around.

Yveltal’s not as strong as you’d expected. Or perhaps your fight with Ange had just skewed your idea of a tough battle. If you can get it burnt by swapping in Chandelure, catching it will be a walk in the park—,

Something cracks. Griselle screams your name.

You look down just as the ground disappears beneath your feet.

Gravity flips. Glass explodes outward, whizzing everywhere, cutting the world around you into spiraling shapes. Pressure blooms from your gut, sucking inward. You see the sun tilt sideways across the sky. 

Suddenly, you feel the ground beneath you, scratching your legs and torso. Your hands twitch, stiff and oddly warm. Psychic energy sizzles around you; Gardevoir must’ve softened your fall.

You blink. She’s crying; you hear her shrieking, wailing, gathering bursts of energy between her flailing tendrils. You’ve never heard her cry like that before. It’s odd, like a pressurized burst of gravity pushing down over you, and you hear it shake—it almost sounds like thunder.

You rub your pointer finger and thumb together. The skin slides and sticks. Thick, slick. Warm. The glass on the ground prickles. It sparkles like snow. 

You try to breathe, but the pressure only builds, and you cough, your tongue heavy like a stone. 

Fabric sticks as your chest billows inward. It pulls with an odd wetness. Why? You wonder. The glass rattles under your chin.

Someone else makes a noise like a Pyroar’s bellow. A strip of rhubarb creaks as it curls down from the caved-in ceiling above. You see the white flash of Grisham’s apron.

The air reverberates with those furious screams. A huge red shape weaves in your mind’s eye, glass crunching beneath its hooved feet. Black shadows sink. Yveltal falls.

Sound pulls over you in a dark, brushing curtain. It layers thick over your head and eyes. Warmth touches your face. A hand moves your head, turning the sun again. You see a pale, pretty face creased into bright golden starlight.

“‘orbeau?” You mumble.

What a relief, you think, he’s not hurt. His pale frown smooths over you, speckled with the glimmering things amongst the concrete. His mouth moves over and over again, his words muffled by the ringing in your ears.

He touches your side. His arm flickers away. Deep crimson catches his reflection on the ground.

You slowly tilt your head downward.

A large piece of glass is stuck inside your gut, right underneath your right rib. It gleams up at you, and within it you see the reflection of your pale, blood-spattered face.

Fire races over your frigid chest. You make a noise, soft and strangled, words shaking and weeping from your lips. “Cor. Corbeau—,”

“It’s alright.” Corbeau states flatly, measuredly, his pale hands crimson and shiny. His sticky palm lifts your head until all you can see is him. Scoliopede stands strong behind him, a wall made of red shelling. It hurts.

“You’re fine.” He repeats, his dilating eyes burning into yours. “Stay calm.”

The world pulses, and you groan, suddenly nauseous and freezing cold. Corbeau crouches down and slots his hands under your legs and back. You have no idea what he’s doing until your torso lifts from the ground. 

A madness fills you, a screeching madness, a howl that croaks its way from your throat, muffled into a muted, near animalistic sound. You see hands on you, feel them cut into your insides. A bright white light shines high above. Then a voice shrieks, stop—!

Blue gloves move. Your gut splits open and bleeds with black, murky ink. Sick, you clutch your warm stomach and make another noise in pain, so loud and low it simply melts into the ringing of your ears. 

You’re suddenly unable to hear anything but your own voice. Detached from you, pathetically weepy, eerily loud in the echoing silence. No words, just sounds, beating their way out of your gut, thick and congealed like saliva. 

You see black fabric. You see concrete.

Stop it, stop it, the voice weeps and wails. Please—,

Gravity shifts. Something pulls inside of you. The pain shocks you, so searing and frightening, and again the scalpel lifts.

“—Sorry, sorry,” someone frantically repeats over and over. “I’m so sorry, I won’t lift you again, I’m sorry, okay—? You’re alright,” Hands waver over your back. “You’re good, you’re safe. It’s okay, we’re on the ground, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you—,”

“‘M sorry. You can…pick me up,” the voice mumbles woozily. His arms trace your back in a dream. Each touch stitches up your long and shiny scar. “I ‘dun…don’t mind if ‘orbeau..”

“Damn it,” Corbeau’s voice cracks, his face shiny and blotchy. One of his glasses’ lenses is broken. It cuts your reflection in two.

A young boy watches fireworks beyond his window in your mind’s eye. He’s staring up into the bright sky with wonder. As Corbeau lifts you the world stretches up high above your head, his bright glasses two twin moons, fireworks puffing outward in the shape of white-blue clouds.

“There you go,” Corbeau mumbles, shifting his weight in place. “I’ve got you. You’ll be alright. Please—,” His voice breaks as the moons well outward. “Please don’t cry like that again.”

“I’ll be..’ight.” You whisper into the blue.

“Yes, you will.”

Your hands shake to clutch into his purple shirt, curling into desperate fists. There’s blood on him now, because of you. “You ’ill?”

“I’ll be alright too.” He sighs, the sound achy and wet. It sounds fond and very, very sad. “..I’m not even hurt, remember?”

“But the blood,” 

“It’s yours.” His voice trembles and dips down against the crown of your head. You feel the brush of his glasses’ chain against your temple, and remember briefly the way he’d held you. It was warm like the tail of a comet. “That’s all yours.”

“Oh,” You stare into the blurry colors, feeling his shaky breath gust your face. It hurts. Everything aches. You’re so tired. “..Can we nap?”

Corbeau laughs quietly. His shoulders shake with the wobbly, comfortable sound. “My little do-gooder is being lazy again.”

Why does he talk about you that way? It feels like sinking into a warm bath with shimmering salts. All the rose flowers and sparkles are bubbling up around you. Glittering, golden, wobbly, slowly. You want to fall asleep in his arms, floating here thousands of miles above the ground.

“Dun’ go”

“I won’t,” He whispers into your ear. “I won’t, I won’t.” Then he shushes you soothingly. It sounds like a wave slinking over a sandy shore. “Close your eyes now. There you go. That’s my girl.”

Rocking, rocking. He’s walking you somewhere. You make a noise, but one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head. He shushes you again. “I’ll hold you. I’ve got you. Just rest.”

People swirl around. A warmth gusts and presses against your forehead, tucking into your cheek. You close your eyes. Just rest.

Grisham arrived in the Hotel Z lobby just when it’d started to snow. Urbain kept poking at the fireplace with a metal stick, barely lifting his head when Grisham walked into the room. 

Grisham’s one of your new friends, occasionally dropping by with coffee and a few serious anecdotes, though when Griselle strides in behind him with tears on her face, Urbain immediately knows that something is wrong. 

They’re supposed to be taking on Yveltal with you today. You were supposed to be returning now to his freshly made curry and a flickering, warm fireplace. Where are you? His head lifts finally to search beyond Grisham’s shoulder, but you aren’t there.

Griselle sniffles.

Urbain’s stomach sinks as he stares at the empty space beside the café workers’ sides. Another streaky tear pulls over Griselle’s pink cheek as she glares at the ground. Snow shoots down beyond the high windows in dark, stroking sheets, and Lida finally bounds up from her chair.

“What’s going on?” She blurts urgently. At their stretching silence she repeats, her voice shaking, “What’s—what’s wrong?”

Naveen reaches out and grips the end of her hoodie, his expression sinking in fear. Grisham opens his mouth, his eyes open and staring down at the snow he’d tracked over the rug. 

Naveen makes a choked noise. Then Lida began shaking, her hands pressing tight over her mouth, stumbling backwards as though she'd been struck.

All of their voices fade into the ringing in Urbain’s ears. He drops the fire poker, barrels past a shouting Griselle, and barges out into the blizzard, unable to hear much else.

Wind howls in his ears. He runs through piles of snow. Darts into a taxi cab, shouts something nearly nonsensical. The whole ride he spends in silence until the red glow of the hospital’s symbol burns into his vision through the endless white haze.

Yet when he makes it to your hospital room, nurses running around him, their footsteps sliding against the clean, speckled tile, he finds that he’s not the first one there.

“..The hell,” Urbain pauses, his hands locking into shaking fists. “The hell are you doing here?”

Corbeau stands stiffly with his usual composure, his arms folded behind his back. His frown, a simple, flat expression, gives nothing away. Yet his eyes are bright red behind the cracked frames of his glasses. 

It looks like he’s been crying for hours, sitting there covered in the scabs of your blood.

“Well, because we both care for our friend here.” He states calmly, as though his pale face isn’t covered in the streaks of dried tears. “Why else would we be in her hospital room?”

Urbain can’t stop staring at the emotion on that stern man's face, the very same man who’d torn his world apart with a pen and a businesslike smile. “Why were you—?” 

Yet he can’t find the words. Your still, motionless form lays quietly in the hospital bed before him. The monitors attached to your wrists beep slowly, as slow as the rise and fall of your breath.

He feels his hands tremble violently and he curls them into tight fists. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay, right? You have to be. Each thought tumbles and collides together, repeating desperately—You have to be.

He sees your golden hair swirling in a crest of the sun and his whole stomach feels tight. You’d jumped in the air like that and his world had flipped sideways, his dark nights cut through with an orange stripe of sunrise. 

How easily you’d changed his whole world—how easily his world will fall apart without you. You’re everything—smiles, laughs, a foundation when he crumbles—he sees you tryin’ to be strong even when your legs shake so bad you can hardly stand. 

Urbain loves you. You’re the best friend he’s ever had. It was only once all that envy burned away that he saw it: that he loved fightin’ by your side.

You’re his secret weapon, his rival, his partner in crime. You’re the star of Team MZ, the Flamethrower Roast to his Ember. What on earth is he supposed to do now? What on earth can he possibly do without you? 

Savin’ the world would be pointless without you in it. Savin’ the world, gettin’ recognized, findin’ out what happened to the Nobody that was his mother—all that stupid stuff would be useless without Team MZ by his side. 

It’s only now that he realizes it. He feels like the biggest idiot in the world. Everything would be pointless without his best friend.

Wake up, he thinks to your peacefully sleeping face, stepping closer. Please, wake up—!

“She told me about you.”

Urbain stiffens.

“I suppose it was wrong of me," Corbeau continues, pushing his glasses up his face. "And Philippe, extensively, to go after someone who had recently been scammed. So I wish to apologize.”

“I wasn’t scammed.” Urbain’s hands bundle into your sheets.

“You gave all of your money to a fraud,” Corbeau states flatly. “He was on our list. Constantly fooling tourists into giving him money, when he lives in a penthouse in the Bleu Sector. Don’t worry, we’ve dealt with him accordingly.”

“Would you just,” Urbain can hardly breathe. “Would you just stop talking—?!”

“She loves you.” Corbeau states.

Air hovers around him, smelling clear and sterile. The beeping of your monitors sound oddly loud, their long green lines bobbing with your quiet breaths.

“She loves you, Lida, she loves AZ, may he rest in peace—and that Naveen kid, too. She mentions you all whenever she speaks.” Corbeau turns his head and steps up beside Urbain, brushing his hand over the neatly tucked end of your hospital bedsheet. “I asked her if she wanted to join the Rust Syndicate, and she said ‘no’ very firmly. It was admirable. It’s difficult to find someone who loves their companions so wholeheartedly, and so much.”

Urbain already knew that. It’d be impossible not to. Even the way you move, slow and steady, rushes with a big blue fountain of love. Yet he feels buried, like a stone that’s been crushed by hundreds of layers of earth, as he stares into the pale side-profile of Corbeau’s oddly soft, fond expression.

“I’m a selfish man.” Cobreau states quietly, gazing down at you. “I wanted to get a bit of that love for myself. You all seemed to have gained it so easily. It’s the first time in a long time..that I’ve longed for someone’s love like this.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You seem to have a false and wholly negative idea of me.” Corbeau smiles smugly as he pushes his cracked glasses up his nose. “I thought showing you my more ‘vulnerable’ side would appeal to your nature. I’d like to get on your good side if I can, since you are one of her friends whom she cherishes.”

Urbain can hear his teeth grinding together in his skull. He inhales a loud, wheezing breath through his nose, reluctantly loosening his hold on the bedsheet. Then he meets eyes with your still, wan face and exhales sharply.

“You’re awful. Utterly untrustworthy,” He states, closing his eyes, your sleeping form burned into his memory. “Awful.”

He hesitates. The silence sounds so damn loud. “..But she likes you a lot. She talks about you all the damn time. It’s freakin’ annoying, to be honest.”

Corbeau appears surprised by this information. An odd, unnerving smile quirks over his pasty cheeks. “..Is that so?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.” He states. “Or I’ll. I’ll, um.” He raises a fist uselessly. He tightens it to make it appear more menacing, but it’s definitely still useless. “I’ll make you eat four helpings of croissant curry next time you stay with us.”

“Sorry, Mr. Corbeau,” Lida pops her head in through the door. “Is Urbain threatening you?”

“Honestly, it’s hard to tell.” Corbeau returns, still grinning like a lunatic. “What the hell is croissant curry?”

“Don’t ask,” Naveen mumbles as he shuffles into the room. His gaze lands on you and he stiffens. Lida pauses at his side, her smile quivering away.

“..Hey,” Urbain states, trying to fit a pleasant grin on his face. He reaches over and touches Naveen’s hunched shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Can…can we even be smiling like this?” Lida’s expression crumples as a huge, globby tear streaks down her red cheek. “When. When she’s—,”

“She, she wouldn’t want us to be frowning,” Naveen manages wetly, his head dropping forward as his eyes spill with tears. “I…”

Lida’s shoulders shake as Naveen dissolves into soft, weeping sobs, sluggishly scrubbing a stringy glob of snot away from under his nose. He reaches for you.

“I, I was an idiot,” he says to you. His voice cracks into the silent room. “I’m sorry for ignoring you. I should have never—,” He hiccups and touches your arm shakily. The monitor beeps, so much louder than the sound of his small, desperate breaths. “Please—please wake up. I want to talk with you again. I want us to go home—,”

Urbain hears the ghost of your laughter as water rains forth in a rainbow of color. He sees a mirage of Naveen’s small and hesitant smile. Then he hears Lida dancing and hears the tapping of her feet. 

Here, it’s silent. The whole damn world falls silent without you. Even the wind stills as you breathe, your chest rising and falling beneath the hospital bed’s thin sheets, your skin dim without the warmth of the sun. 

Urbain feels his throat tighten as he makes a noise similar to a busted pipe. He clutches his heaving chest just as Lida throws her arms around Naveen and wails.

“Get yourselves together!” Corbeau bellows suddenly. Both Naveen and Lida clutch each other with matching, high-pitched shrieks as he stomps forward, pointing a sharp hand. “Do you think standing around and crying does anything?! No! So listen up! I’ve got a job for the lot of you!”

“What the hell—?” Urbain manages shakily. 

“When she goes home,” Corbeau states flatly, gravely. “And she will be going home—she’ll want a nice, clean bed to lay in. She’ll need medicine to recover, bandages for her wound, and a good, sturdy cane to help her get around.” He digs into his pocket. “I received this list from a nurse. It’s everything she’ll need to get back on her feet."

Urbain flinches as Corbeau shoves a scrawl-covered piece of paper into his face. 

“Take it.” Corbeau orders firmly. “Get all of these things as soon as you can. Then, when she’s discharged, you’ll take her back to your ramshackle hotel and all will be fine and dandy. So wipe those disgusting tears off your face and get going. Got it?”

“You’re so mean,” Lida whimpers, pressing Naveen’s weepy face into her shoulder. She hiccups. “You’re so mean and scary. Hic,”

“Got it?” Corbeau repeats furiously, a vein bulging above his brow.

“Got it,” Urbain states, saliva sticking in the back of his throat. His fingers refuse to obey him and he struggles to take hold of the paper; it takes him two tries. Yet Corbeau remains silent and patient, not saying a word as he sniffles loudly and furiously scrubs the wetness from his face. “We’ll do it.”

Urbain turns toward his team, rolling his shoulders back. “Got that, team? Looks like it’s time for a Strategy Meeting.”

Lida releases Naveen, who scrubs his face with an audible swallow. “Yeah,” She says, then repeats it firmly. “Yeah. What do we need to do?”

“Someone needs to replace her sheets and sterilize her room real thoroughly so that she doesn’t get sick.” Urbain stares at the list. “Then somebody’s gotta handle her prescriptions and medical supplies—finally, we’re gonna need a bunch of safe food that she can eat while she’s recovering.”

“I’ll handle the medical stuff,” Naveen volunteers, sniffling as he rubs beneath his half-lidded, swollen eyes. “My grandma needs a lot of prescriptions too, so I’m good with that sort of thing.”

“I’ll do the food, since I do most of the cookin’ anyway,” Urbain decides. “Lida, think you can handle the rest?”

“Easy!” Lida pumps her fists, not seeming to notice Naveen’s shiny snot coated all over the front of her hoodie. “I’ll make room 202 super clean and comfy!”

Their Strategy Meeting screeches to a halt as the hospital’s sliding door slams open. Urbain turns his head fully expecting to see a nurse yelling at them about the noise, but he finds the hulking, intimidating Philippe standing stiff and silent, his hands hiding something behind his back.

“...What have you got there?” Corbeau states darkly.

A chill runs up Urbain’s spine. Lida freezes, a bead of sweat peeling over her chin, and Naveen slouches beside her, gripping tightly to one of her arms. 

“Philippe.” Corbeau all but growls. “Show me.”

Philippe hesitantly brings out an obnoxious, fluffy Chikorita plushie from behind his back. It has big, button eyes and a stuck-out tongue stitched onto its smiling mouth. Urbain squints. Around its neck, someone has tied a big, baby-pink bow.

Corbeau grins menacingly. “Excellent.”

It’s quiet and dark when you wake up. No sound. No stars.

In the desert, you once saw a comet, its fiery tale crossing the sky in a stroke of sparkling fire. You’d kept your eyes on it for hours, your skin dusted with sand, your tent half-built behind you. Yet you kept looking. 

In the dark, you search woozily for that ball of sunlight—that star that guided you through the night. 

A hand suddenly squeezes around yours, and a dark, hunched shape lunges upright. The rims of Corbeau’s glasses catch small specks of dim light in this deep blue, empty room. He exhales sharply, sounding stunned, the noise melding into the dull beeping of your monitors.

“There she is,” He whispers, reaching for you, cupping your face in his hands. “My beautiful girl.”

Your face involuntarily scrunches when his thumbs brush the wetness beneath your eyes. He chuckles quietly. It’s a warm sound, one that rumbles through the palms on your face, and his calloused thumbs brush back and forth, back and forth.

“..You must be a little out of it.” He tells you. “Saw them give you a full cocktail. So you’re not in any pain, right?”

You can hear his words, but they don’t mean anything to you. You want him to call for you again. He always does so in such a warm tone of voice.

“Relax, my little do-gooder. I’m not going anywhere.”

You feel your face do something funny.

“Oh, do you like it when I call you that?” Corbeau chuckles again. “Or do you not? Tell me. I’d like to hear your pretty voice.”

“..Sayin’ strange things,” You manage hoarsely.

“Am I?” Corbeau blinks a few times with pink cheeks. Yet he smiles, seemingly unphased. “I suppose I’m just happy to see you.”

Your small smile widens, even though it hurts.

“You look happy.” His thumb brushes against your cheek again. “Are you happy to see me too?”

“Mhm.” Corbeau. It’s Corbeau. You love seein’ Corbeau.

His face warms under the murmuring brush of soft, tickling sounds. “..Good. Good. I love seeing you too. Oh—look.” He reaches for something around you. “Philippe brought this for you. What do you think? Perhaps it’ll keep you company when I’m not around.”

He’s speaking much more than usual, his voice layering over itself in a softer, dulcet tone, and he’s holding something fuzzy and pastel green in his hand. You try to lift your own again, but it’s difficult. There are a lot of plastic parts and tubes attached to the back of your palm.

Corbeau lifts your hand for you, his calloused fingertips feeling like a static-filled rug beneath your wrist. You can no longer focus on his face very well. Exhaustion drags into your slow, quiet breaths, into the thousand pound weights hanging over your lashes. Your fingertips brush against something soft.

“Open your eyes,” Corbeau coaxes quietly. You feel his fingers lift under your sinking chin. “Come on, now. I know you can do it.”

Your eyes open to more darkness and no-stars. Yet something green floats in pale hands, a splotch of color in the inky-blue room. It’s a plushie. It’s very cute.

“Cute,” You mumble, your fingers dragging down its button eyes. “Love.”

“I knew you would.” Corbeau grins wildly. It’s a stark contrast to the darkness in the room, the shadows on his face, and the bags beneath his eyes. “Your love of cute things…I’ve always wondered, does it extend to yourself?”

“Mhm.”

Corbeau laughs and praises you again. “Good, good.”

His hands fold over yours in the dusty darkness. Your lethargically-blinking eyes can hardly stay open, but you recognize his worn knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the callouses lining his palms. 

When you turn your head toward him across the crinkly pillow, you find those bright eyes gazing down at you, watching your every breath.

“Sleep,” You state bluntly. “Now.”

“..Me?” Corbeau just sounds amused. “I think this is the first time anyone’s given me an order. You’re very brave, aren’t you?”

“Mhm.”

“So you know very well that you’re brave.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “I like people who are confident in themselves. And I’ve never met someone as confident as you.”

The wall melts forward into a brush of dark cloth, a calloused fingertip threading through golden-soft strands.

“…Do you even realize how incredible you are?” The voice wavers like something from a dream, soft and breathless. Warmth brushes the cold skin of your cheek. “I can never take my eyes off of you. Everything you do amazes me. Everything about you.”

The same warmth bursts from a purple splotch. Blue stitches curl over a bright golden eye.

I want you to remember this. Everything I’m saying. Remember it. That’s my job for you.

A quiet voice only speaks in broken syllables. It creaks like tap water running. Cor. 

I’m here.

A green stripe slows into an unraveled thread. Around it, a world swirls black as void. Cor, calls the voice, sandy and gleaming under the hot sun.

Really, won’t you say my name properly?

It sounds like wet lungs. In the desert smog, you taste salt in a brush of hot air.

I’m right here, wobbles a voice. Don’t cry.

It rains.

I’m right here.

It rains for a long time.

Pink hydrangeas drag their plush heads along the windowsill. Your mouth tastes dusty, chalky, and dry. You can hardly move your tongue; it feels like it’ll break into a thousand pieces if you try.

A blue world slopes over the white sheets of your hospital bed. You lift your hand, then let your fingers fall heavy with their bandages, tubes, and plastic monitors. Motion quietly blurs through the other end of the room, white-pink fabric creasing into the slopes of dim light.

“Oh, you’ve woken up,” says a kind, unfamiliar voice. A nurse’s looped hair drifts into the corners of your blurry, sticky eyes. “Right about when we expected you would. That’s very good. Would you like some water?”

“Mrgh,” you mumble nonsensically, reaching up with your other hand. Something pangs in your stomach, and you drop your arm, swallowing harshly. 

A small paper cup bumps onto the table next to the hospital bed’s white rail. 

“I can only give you ice cubes for now. Eat those slowly, alright?” the nurse tells you. “And press that help button that’s on the bed next to you if you start feeling sick.”

All you can manage is a weird, strangled gurgle in response. You reach for the cup and tip two searing-cold cubes into your mouth. They melt away the sandy scratchiness like a spring’s gentle snowfall. 

You sigh in deep relief as you sink back into the cushions.

The sun slopes further. Ice cubes melt away, spinning in slow circles. Sheets flutter beneath your twitching fingers. You nod ‘yes’ when the nurse asks you if she can ‘inform your family,’ then ‘yes’ again when she asks if you’d like her to open a window.

The bulb of a massive vase of pink hydrangeas slopes down to bob at you in greeting. Pidgey chirp in a hazy skyline beyond, but you can hardly see them through all the pink petals.

“Who the hell sent those ab’—obnoxious flowers?” You slur, a smile painful and pinching your cheeks.

The nurse chuckles, then picks up the vase to set it closer at your bedside. 

You reach out laboriously, then dig through the huge bulbs of bright petals until your fingers catch onto paper hard and smooth. You pull out a small card, inky black, the Rust Syndicate’s emblem printed in gold. You open the flap.

To my lazy little love.

In adoration, 

Corbeau

You squint at it, your chest feeling tight and strange.

“Does it say something nice?” The nurse asks you as she finally hands you a real cup of water. Her crinkling eyes twinkle. “You’re smiling,”

You sip it gratefully, feeling a small smile peel over your lips. “..Hm.”

Then your hospital’s sliding door swings open with such vigor that it screeches to the side and bounces straight back closed—such that your frantic visitors are forced to open it again. Someone screeches your name, and the small black card slips from your hand, falling back into the pile of pink petals and leaves.

Blue-clad arms wrap tight around your shoulders. Lida buries her face into your neck and she’s followed by the wooly cords of a familiar white cardigan. Naveen practically clamors onto the bed to get to you and Urbain’s arms grapple over him, trapping both him and Lida against your side.

Noise rambles and billows over you as all three of your friends try to speak at once; most of it is drowned out by Lida’s loud, weepy cries. The nurse leaves the room, her hand pressed against her mouth. You’re pretty sure she’s laughing at you. 

It takes nearly thirty minutes for the three of them to calm down. By the time they do, all they can focus on is the bright pink Cufant in the room.

“..Who the hell sent these obnoxious flowers?” Naveen states, mirroring your prior words exactly. He pokes a massive pink bulb with a sharply raised brow, his violet eyes still red and swollen from all his crying.

You cough a laugh then immediately regret it with a loud, frustrated groan. Lida frantically slaps your bedside. “Oh, jeeze, don’t hurt yourself!”

“Cor,” You manage, glaring at the ceiling. Your lungs do something stupid. “Cor—,”

Won’t you say my name properly? A flower murmurs next to your head.

“—Corbeau?” Lida finishes for you. “Honestly, that makes sense.”

“I was thinking it was either him or Jacinthe.” Urbain folds his arms with a huff, his scuffed old jacket crinkling with his brow. “I mean, just look at the size of that thing.”

You have to keep yourself from chuckling again. Corbeau would hate to be in the same sentence as Jacinthe—especially on the topic of overly-indulgent spending.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” Urbain smiles next to the open window, the wind slightly tousling his unruly hair. “We’ve all been waiting for you,”

“Yeah,” Lida smiles, rubbing the top of your head playfully. “Remember—,”

—Remember what I’m saying, a leaf dips against your wrist. That’s my job for you.

Lida’s words trail off at whatever dopey look is on your face. You blink slowly, feeling the thoughtless smile pulling over your face. Everything hurts, yet you’re so damn happy. It’s as though all your insides got stitched up with a pretty golden thread.

“What’s going on with you?” Lida laughs, smiling in return. “Did they give you more meds?”

“I love bein’ awake,” You tell her nonsensically, that giddy grin peeling over your teeth. You see their bright-eyed faces watching you, and imagine them all in a warm room. It’s all colored by the sound of someone’s soft, faint gaze, someone’s hand cradling the back of your head. “We’ll all be home together soon.”

It is a brief blip, like spring. For a moment your life bursts into multicolor. You see his small smile in a mirage in your mind, now clearer than ever, his eyes soft and fond when he looks at you. His cold-flushed, scrunching nose. His laughter.

“I’m so happy,” You say breathlessly. “I have so many people I love,”

Urbain smiles in relief as he scrubs the tears off of his face. Lida chuckles happily and squeezes your hand. Naveen smiles slowly, but then his eyes catch a black paper in the pale pink flowers, tucked down between their flickering stems.

“Oh…what’s the card say?” He reaches for it. 

My beautiful girl, hums a warm streak of sun.

Your smile slopes sluggishly as you sink deeper into your pillow, feeling a comfortable warmth drift over your bubbling chest. You watch Naveen’s eyes flicker through Corbeau’s odd words, and then his expression drops, utterly gobsmacked for the first time in his life. “Huh—?”

Your teammates crowd around the innocuous black paper. Lida makes a loud shrieking squealing noise akin to an ambulance siren, and Urbain’s jaw falls entirely off of his face. With one long, settled breath, your heavy eyelids slip shut.

My favorite little do-gooder—,

“—Why is Corbeau calling you a—?!”

—Lazy little love.

“‘M tired now,” You mumble sleepily, your hand falling lax in Lida’s. “Let’s chat later.”

Lida states your name, looking frantic. “You absolutely cannot just fall asleep without giving us context—,”

“Are you really—?!”

“Hey—!”

You dream of a dusty blue sea, soft waves pillowing over in gentle bubbles of foam. 

Wiggling your bare feet in the sand, you marvel at how smoothly they move, then smile out into the dusk. At your side, someone holds your hand, folding your fingers neatly together. They fit like a puzzle piece. Rain speckles your shoulders, gentle and warm.

Their form holds you upright, their hand tethered to your hand, as you playfully kick the sloshing waves. Water splashes away from your feet, cold and glittering. You laugh happily. The sun sinks over into a striped dark cloud, and you pull your companion forward into the water, hearing the air rumble with their little chuckles.

They squeeze your hand, prompting you to turn your head toward them.

“I heard that you’d woken up,” Floats their quiet voice, flat yet strangely disappointed. “Was I mistaken?”

A pause. Footsteps slide forward in the silence. The hand squeezes yours once again, then gently taps each tip of your lax fingers, from pinkie to thumb.

“Hello, hello,” The chair at your bedside creaks with its added weight. Humor bleeds into that false monotone. “..You’re not actually asleep anymore, are you?”

You crack open one lazy eye, a slow, crooked grin crawling over your face. “Whadya’ think? Am I good at fakin’ it?”

“Not at all.” Corbeau chuckles, tilting his head with a small smile. “Though those friends of yours seemed pretty convinced.”

His eyes crinkle when they spot you, the petals of his soft pink flowers drifting beside him. A gentle wind tousels his dark, unruly hair. 

You lunge upright, ignoring the pull in your stomach.

“What are you—!” Corbeau shoots forward, one knee pressing down into your mattress as he scrambles to support you. “What are you doing?!” He hisses, suddenly furious. “Lay back down right now—,”

His voice breaks in half when you slump forward and melt into him. 

Corbeau falls completely stiff as though he’s been shocked still by Urbain’s Magnetric. When your arms encircle him and squeeze tightly, he goes rigid as stone, and then his shoulders twitch in an upward hike. 

Philippe makes a weird sound in your peripheral. It’s all very dramatic and unnecessary. Wasn’t Corbeau the one who told you to lean on him?

“..I had a dream about you,” You tell Corbeau, the sound brushing against his neatly-pressed purple shirt. “You were here, an’ it was rainin’ for a long time.”

“Is that so,” He returns woodenly.

“Mhm.” You yawn, your cheek sloping against his shoulder. Won’t he relax? Even with your nose smushed into his skin the whole world glows magenta. “Those flowers…are so damn pink..” 

Corbeau remains completely silent. Heavy footsteps retreat and a door closes. You tilt your face upward, finding blotchy redness all over Corbeau’s face, bleeding down into his shirt collar. A fever, you think.

“It’s okay to get sick in a hospital,” You inform him, a hand appearing from somewhere to smooth down his hot cheek.

Corbeau looks at you, so very close to you, his golden eyes wide, a little bit shiny. Each time you stroke his cheek his dark lashes flutter. 

“You’re,” When he swallows, it sounds like rocks are trapped in his lungs. “You’re not making any sense.”

“‘Course,” You return through a halting yawn. “I’ve spent a whole damn day with no coffee.”

“Three.”

“What?”

His hand shakes down onto your back and presses there. “Three days. You were asleep for two.”

A long pause. Suddenly your eyes feel hot. A huge sun peaks out in the corner of your eye, your knees burning in the sand. What if you have to learn how to walk again?

“Oh,” You manage thickly. “Am I okay?”

Corbeau wordlessly ducks his head into your neck. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

Exhaling, you dip your forehead into his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” He repeats, his lips brushing your skin, though it sounds more like he’s saying it to himself.

You pat his back, staring blankly at the adjacent wall. 

“..Do you remember what I told you?” Corbeau asks. He lifts his head, his voice at the precipice of a whisper. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” You return. You try to poke where your forehead is, but somehow miss. “My mind is a steel trap.”

Corbeau catches your useless hand. “And you’re a serious girl. You do what you want, and you say what you mean.” 

You squint at him. “..You remember all that?”

“I remember everything about you.” Corbeau huffs, the sound fond, a quirk of a smile pulling up one cheek. “Including the reckless way you jumped off that roof.”

“Steel trap,” You mumble in awe.

“You silly girl.” He cups your face in his hands. “You silly, silly girl.”

This pale skin of his looks like it should feel cold as ice, like the crinkly give of snow upon touch, yet it’s warm, warm enough to lean on, sink into. You want to give him a name, the way he has given you one—a name that feels plush and layers over him like a blanket.

Yet your eyes are sliding shut.

Corbeau whispers your name. “..Look at me.”

“M’kay. ‘Little..’” You hesitate, your mouth pressing into the sloped palm of his hand. “‘Big love?’” Your face scrunches to the side in frustration. “But you’re littler than me.” 

Corbeau bursts into loud and halting laughter. It sounds gleeful, relieved, and more than a bit unhinged. He reaches forward and pulls you into him, pressing his warbling sounds into your collarbone, but they still escape in wavering coughs.

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask as you pat his back sluggishly. “Corbeau? ‘Tiny love?’”

“I..could have you eliminated for this.” He manages over your shoulder.

“I’d like to see you try,” You invite kindly. You really would. It sounds like fun. “You wanna…do that showdown at the hotel still?”

Corbeau laughs again, lifting his head from your shoulder, his movements as slow as molasses. His face crinkles, flushed and beautifully happy.

“I like your laughing. Laugh more,” You coax him.

“No.” Corbeau’s face immediately flattens into nothingness.

You feel utterly crestfallen. Corbeau’s expression warps into one gleeful and amused by whatever face you’re making.

“For the showdown, I’ll have all my grunts battle your crew. All at the same time,” He suggests cheekily. “Won’t that be interesting? Surely more interesting than whatever Jacinthe could come up with.”

“Mhm,”

“What a boring response.”

He fills the echoing room with his calming voice, each flat syllable layering over in a wave on a dry desert beach. He suggests battle tactics, then a walk in the park; after which, you finally find the words.

“..Let’s get coffee after.”

“Your usual?” Corbeau hums. “With a croissant on the side?”

You grin just at the thought, lips peeling over your lolling face. Corbeau’s smile colors his voice, his words popping with little bright sparkles. “..The simplest things make you so happy. I want to experience life with you, just basking in your joy.”

A breath, and for the first time, he hesitates. “..Do you feel the same?”

“I,” You return breathily, the words thick and soft, slowly blinking into the shroud of blobby colors. “I love bein’ around you. I’ve said so before. You..you make me so happy.”

“Truly?” Emerges a voice so quiet you can hardly hear. 

You smile woozily, your eyes sliding shut. “The…happiest.”

Corbeau clutches your hands, at first so tightly it nearly hurts, then his grip relaxes. He’s too far away; you can’t see his smile.

“Come here,” You mumble, peeling open your sticky eyes. Your hand brushes, soft, against his wrist, then his skin, then the rumpled fabric of his rolled-up sleeve. “Corbeau..come here,”

He moves toward you, wordless, without a snarky comment or a word of protest. You reach up and shakily take his glasses off of his face, letting them dangle by their chain around his neck.

“Have you slept?” You ask him. “You haven’t. I’m right.”

Corbeau’s eyes meander up somewhere to the ceiling, the dark bags beneath them heavy and stark.

“Look at me,” You ask quietly. Corbeau turns his head toward you stiffly, pink petals layering over the tips of his ears. You touch his snowy cheek, the warm skin soft against the rough pads of your fingertips. “You won’t sleep if I don’t ask you to. I know you,”

“I know you.” Corbeau returns with a quiet smile.

“Sleep here,” You murmur. He twitches as you pull him downward by the sleeve.

“You’re saying nonsense.” He states as he dutifully follows you down into the stiff sheets.

“I always say nonsense.”

He laughs again, finally, and the sound thrums through you, warms every inch of your skin.

“Corbeau,” You murmur sleepily. “Cor..”

His shoulder towers over your head in a thin, mountainous shadow. His expression trembles with each strained word from your lips, the shakiness obvious now that he’s so close.

You smooth it away with your hand.

“G’night,” You whisper to him, your words cut through by a little yawn. “Love you..lots.”

You fall asleep to the open, lax look on his face, his eyes warm and bright, washing over you in the soothing gaze of the desert sun.

I find so many memories flit through my mind now, at the end of things…all that falls into the past disappears. These memories will fade—as will I. 

Your story is only beginning, my dear friend. I pray that you will live a life you can be proud of. 

I am truly grateful to have known you.

Thank you.

“You invited Jacinthe?” Corbeau hisses into Urbain’s face, alight under the glittering glow of the Delibird Day tree.

“For the record,” Urbain returns promptly, his hands held up flat as a peace offering. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Then whose was it?”

“Mine,” Naveen states next to the tree, high atop a ladder hanging golden streams of tinsel. His corded red Delibird sweater catches glittering reflections from the nearby ornaments.  “I’m hoping to get a better look at that coat she was wearing the other day. It’s made of materials of the finest quality,”

“That’ll certainly make this party more interesting,” Lida grins sheepishly as she steadies the base of the ladder. Her snowflake-shaped hair bobbles shift on the top of her head.

“..Why did they leave that kid in charge of the guest list?” Corbeau mutters to himself, sounding both dejected and displeased. 

Philippe smiles beside him in amusement, sipping his obnoxiously sweet hot cocoa. It’s been piled with heaps of marshmallows and whipped cream, so now his sharp sideburns have gained a matching fluffy mustache.

“Cannoli’s coming too,” Urbain announces suddenly, adjusting his Stantler antler headband.

“Her name is Canari—,” Naveen almost falls off the rung of the ladder. “Wait, WHAT?!”

“Mind your volume, please.” L states in a chair by the fireplace, Zygrade dozing at his feet. His bright-red sweater suits him well. “Our guests will be here any moment. As the new Hotel Z concierge, I hope to make this celebration a success.”

“Look, I can’t meet Canari in person! That would be utterly disrespectful to her as her fan—!”

“Just be, like, normal for once.” Urbain returns.

“You,” Naveen growls, “Are a menace.”

Your cane slides against the floor. Shuffle, tap. Shuffle, tap. Zygrade lifts their head, their ears flickering toward you, and Corbeau turns at the sound of your slow footsteps. His smile softens when he meets your eyes; it feels like coming home.

“Though I’m startin’ to feel better,” you say, leaning against your cane’s tinsel-wrapped handle. “I don’t think I’m up for another Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe.”

“That won’t be happening,” Corbeau states rigidly at the same time as Urbain’s dubious, “There’s no way.”

“If she starts a ruckus, we can simply remove her from the premises,” L states as he fills out the Delibird Day crossword. Zygrade barks in agreement, their tailless behind wagging back and forth. 

“Will we be able to?” You feel Corbeau’s warm arm curl around your waist to steady you against his side. “She might set up one of those holotech barriers again. What’d she call it—a ‘Jacinthe Zone?’”

“Oh, jeeze,” Urbain grimaces at the memory.

“..Was this a bad idea?” Naveen wonders from the ladder as he hangs a Floette-shaped ornament.

“Nah,” Lida brushes him off, then chuckles nervously. “..Well, probably.”

You sigh through a muted chuckle. “..Corbeau, mind helping me to the couch?”

Corbeau wordlessly takes your free hand, his other still carefully wrapped around your waist, and he leads you to the plush, green couch sitting next to the towering Delibird Day tree. He lowers you down into the cushions, then takes your cane from your hand to rest it against the couch’s armrest.

Then he steps directly in front of you, methodically lifting both of your hands in his. You pause as he’s suddenly all you can see, leaning down into your vision, haloed in lights of red and gold. He swiftly kisses the crown of your head, leaving behind a small spot of warmth.

You blink, then belatedly twitch.

Corbeau sets your hands onto your lap and then sits down beside you. You tilt your head slowly as you lean against him, the cushions dipping with his weight. “..What was that for?”

Corbeau hums nonchalantly. “A reward, since you asked for my help.”

A smile curls over your face. Urbain makes a loud, obnoxious gagging noise, then pretends to cough into his fist.

Corbeau’s shoulder stiffens against yours, and he leans forward over his knees, clasping his hands together with an intense expression. “You know…I could easily take back that tip.”

Urbain stiffens, paling rapidly. “You wouldn’t.”

Corbeau’s ominous smile sharpens. The fireplace crackles forebodingly.

“Okay, Urbain, mind checking on the croi-curry?” Lida loudly changes the subject.

“Why do we have to have that for dinner,” Naveen groans.

“Do not fret, Naveen.” L holds up a flat hand. “I have added red food dye to the mixture, in accordance with the holiday.”

Now it’s Naveen’s turn to gag. You laugh loudly, then cough in pain twice as loud. Philippe reaches over to pat you on the back, and then Corbeau slaps his hand away with unnecessary force.

“Are you sure you’re alright being up and about?” Corbeau questions harshly, his gaze as narrow as his pursing brows. “If you can’t make it through the party—,”

“Don’t worry,” you manage through a strained chuckle, hunching against the armrest beside you. “I just need to be careful. Then I’ll be runnin’ around again in no time.”

“..And getting on my last nerve, no doubt,” Corbeau tacks on tonelessly. He subtly shifts his arm around you until you’re leaning propped against his side instead.

You smile at him sluggishly. “Nah, I’m never climbin’ up a roof ever again.”

“Thank Arceus,” Naveen grumbles as he descends from the ladder.

Lida hangs up the last remaining ornament as you watch, her dark eyes catching glimmers of gold and multicolored lights. The kaleidoscope of colors flicker with the muted, happy tapping of her heels. She’s dancing again, you realize, watching Starmie spin joyously at her side.

“My hands are so freakin’ cold,” you say to Corbeau, holding out one palm, partially smothered by your huge Delibird Day sweater’s sleeve. “Feel,”

Corbeau takes your hand, huffs at its temperature, and wraps it in one of his own. “Hm. It feels just fine to me.”

You grin. He’s fallen into your trap, now unable to let go. Yet you’re certain he knows that you’ve prompted this on purpose—always dutifully, sweetly playing along.

Naveen waves a hand and ushers Lida across the room. Urbain watches them go curiously, pausing as he adjusts the wreath hung over the fire. L shuts his newspaper and sets it on the side table as Zygrade shifts and cranes open their dark maw with a huge, tongue-curling yawn. 

“Hey, everyone—check this out!” Lida exclaims suddenly, bounding back into the room to brandish a large roll of fabric above her head. 

You lift your gaze, leisurely blinking your eyes, and Lida’s hands pause into the languid, flickering drift of the snow beyond the windows. She holds the roll high in the air, then lets it unravel. It spills downward in a slow, shimmering wave, Team MZ’s bright neon logo standing out in its fluttering center. 

Lida smiles above its top. “Look what Naveen made us for Delibird Day!”

The bright flag’s front, stitched together with red, green, and white fabrics, feels as faint as a memory. You see Lida’s form dancing through the lobby in the corner of your eye, the flag held fluttering in her hands. A smile shapes over your face at the soft, tickling sound of AZ’s laughter. 

Tea clinks into its saucer. A warm hand ghosts the top of your head. It seems that you’ve decided to stay.

“It’s a Delibird Day version of our flag,” Naveen states at her side, fiddling with his braids. “Though, I…added a few more things last night.”

Your gaze drifts to a small image printed onto the fabric in the corner. AZ’s hulking form stands central, while you can faintly see you and your friends smiling on either side of him. Naveen had also stitched on a series of fuzzy fabrics cut like petals in the top left, reminiscent of Floette’s black flower.

“Naveen, that’s incredible,” you murmur, your eyes soft and feeling tight. “Thank you.”

“..I love it,” Urbain adds, sounding choked up. “I really do.”

Naveen’s teasing grin curls up one side of his face, his violet eyes shining and scrunching together. “..Urbain, are you gonna cry?”

“Ooh, Urbain’s gonna cry?” Lida cheers immediately, her shoulders hiking to her ears with giddy excitement and infectious joy.

“I’m not—erk!” Urbain stumbles backward as Lida lunges for him. “Lida—!”

It’s then that Grisham and Griselle saunter through the hotel doors without even knocking, Griselle’s flickering slate eyes at first softening on you then zapping into the casually lounging L with an unnerving grin. 

“Gris, would you look at who it is!” She bellows jovially.

L’s shoulders stiffen. Zygrade lifts their head with an unaffected, slobbery grin. 

“Griselle,” Grisham returns. “Tone it down a little. We’ve already been informed of his presence. There’s no need to make a scene in someone else’s home.”

“Oh Lysandre,” Griselle ignores him, grinning menacingly with a sing-song tone. “We’ve got a gift for you,”

Corbeau’s free arm, still wrapped around your waist, subtly rubs up and down your forearm, wrapped around you like a blanket. Phillipe stares at your laughing friends as he stands beneath the glittering Delibird Day tree, his smile crooked and amused as he lets out a contented sigh.

Lida catches the squawking Urbain and immediately wraps him up in the flag as though it’s a blanket; he’s unable to resist her swift movements, flailing and choking in frantic protest as Naveen bursts into hiccupping laughter.

“Aw, it’s okay—,” Lida coos to Urbain, her voice achingly high-pitched, hugging him tightly in his MZ-flag-burrito. Naveen pats Urbain’s shoulder, flat-faced and trapping him in on the other side. “—Don’t cry, Urbain,” 

Urbain writhes furiously, his whole face as pink as the tips of his hair. “Let go of me—!”

“We’ve brought you our most disgusting blend of coffee yet,” Grisham states to L next to the fireplace. Since he’s the one saying it and not Griselle, you know that the brew must be truly horrendous. “You’d best drink all of it. It’s the least you can do to atone, Team MZ’s dear concierge.”

“…Yes, sir.” L mumbles reluctantly. He takes a sip of the drink, pauses, and then makes an utterly contorted face. 

“So?” Griselle hums with a self-satisfied grin, her hands propped high on her hips. “How do you like the four-day old dregs that we couldn’t sell?”

L coughs, sounding strangled.

The door opens once more, filling the lobby’s high ceilings with bright, bounding voices. Lida unravels Urbain so quickly that he spins in place, wobbling dizzily. Zygrade trots up to you, slobbering happily, and rests their head on your lap until you scratch behind their ears in the way that they like.

Moonlight slinks into the room, illuminating the world beyond the twinkling windows, soft and puffy with fresh snow. Ivor bellows a war cry, carrying a pile of presents and baked goods that nearly hits the top of the doorframe. Both Gwynn and Emma scold him, while Emma’s Espurr Mimi chews on a massive lollipop that’s as wide as she is tall.

Meganium and Scoliopede rest next to each other by the fireplace. Scoliopede has somehow fit a Delibird Day wreath around her neck, though Meganium has been eating pine needles from the wreath, making her huff in composed annoyance.

Lucario helps Naveen and Philippe hang the big, bright flag next to the tree. Meganium chews through another mouthful of pine needles, cooing sleepily. Urbain and Lida burst into loud laughter the moment Jacinthe and Lebanne stride through the doors; they’re both wearing the most obnoxious, bright-red Delibird Day outfits that you’ve ever seen.

Corbeau’s fingers thread through yours. Bright starlight glimmers across your intertwined hands, and you turn to find specks of golden light dancing on the edge of his softened face.

“..I never thought I’d have anything like this,” Corbeau murmurs.

“Well, now we do,” you return quietly. “So don’t ever let go.”

Corbeau squeezes your hand, his small smile curling in the corner of your eye. “I won’t.” 

“Good night, AZ!” Urbain chimes from the base of the stairs. Lida pokes her head out along with you to join the chorus, Naveen huffing in embarrassment at your side. “We love you!”