A/N: Thank you for clicking on this story! I hope you enjoy it!

This story was written as a (very late) birthday present for Zoey, a super nice member of the Pokewrite Forum and the Pokémon Fanfiction Challenges forum. Happy birthday, girl, and stay awesome!

This story was also written for The General Prompt Challenge by Ebaz on the Pokémon Fanfiction Challenges forum, with as prompt basket. You can see where that one went :P

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon.

Basket

Part I

adventure is desired, craved, loved even, if only to reaffirm the loved safety

Dawn

She thinks she's going to die here.

Piplup is snuggled under one arm, Buneary under the other. She only knows this because she can see them; she isn't quite sure if she can feel them. Her thick clothing prevents her from feeling them, she hopes.

She knows it's a stupid hope.

Both Pokémon are fast asleep, deep, slow breaths coming from them. They're exhausted, and they're not built for this cold either. Just like her other Pokémon.

She can't let them die for her, she thinks, and she returns them to their Pokéballs before she can hesitate.

This is her fault, so she will deal with the consequences.

She isn't quite sure if she cares about those, anyway.

When she wakes again, it's dark in the cave. Somehow, she manages to feel even colder than before. She had kept her clothes on when she had come to this cave, fleeing from the snowstorm and the Pokémon- Oh, the wild Pokémon, with their glowing eyes and glimmering teeth and their echoing growls – even now, she doesn't know what exactly they were.

She wants to shudder at the memory, but she can't find the energy to move. Her clothes had been soaked, but that was a long time ago, and now they're frozen solid, a cocoon of ice wrapped around her.

Sinking back in the darkness, she wonders if she'll come out a Beautifly.

It's easier now. It doesn't hurt as much. Her body is heavy, so heavy, but that's okay. The cold is gone. She doesn't feel warm though – she doesn't remember warmth. Actually, she doesn't remember much at all.

But she's content. She's tired, but content. She drags open her eyes once more and she sees only darkness.

She doesn't think anything.

There's light. It's red and orange and yellow and constantly changing, and it feels like it takes years before she recognizes the blurry form of fire. Dark spots dance across her vision.

There's someone in the cave with her.

She should be happy, she thinks, a thread of a conscious thought passing through her. But she doesn't feel happy.

She doesn't feel anything, really.

There's sound, but the darkness comes back, and she slips easily into its embrace. It feels warmer than before.

The pain is back, and it hurts. All she feels is the stinging, the ice-cold burning, the twisting of knives of the cold that's everywhere, unavoidable, unbeatable.

She's angry, too, because she was content and happy and safe, and why would she want to return? She doesn't want to. She thought it was over. She had given up.

Why wasn't it over?

There's sound, and suddenly there's something in her mouth and she swallows reflexively. It's… warm. She realizes she didn't remember how warmth felt anymore, but… it's good.

More follows, but she doesn't know how much or for how long, because time is an unknown concept in whatever place she is now.

But she's not alone, she knows that. So when the darkness returns, she does her best to fight it, but she's not strong enough, not by far.

The pain is still there, and it still hurts, and it's still cold, and she wonders why she wanted to return again.

There are sounds, and she's swallowing again, and it's sweet – she remembers how it is to taste again. She hadn't even noticed she had forgotten that.

"Dawn, Dawn," a voice says, over and over and over again. It's a name, she realizes sluggishly, it's her name.

She tries to respond, tries to nod, but she doesn't know if she's successful. She just keeps drinking, even though it burns, because it's warmth, and this burning feeling is so much better than the cold burning she had gotten used to.

She wonders, if maybe, she's going to live after all.

It's Paul.

She doesn't know when her brain makes the connection, but suddenly the knowledge is there. Maybe it was during the many times she opened her eyes, to find him sitting next to the fire, surrounded by all those Pokémon, before he would get up and hurry over to feed her whatever warm, sweet liquid it was he was feeding her.

Or maybe it was when she was half-awake, his blurred face only millimeters from hers, and his mouth closing around hers to breath in warm air in her lungs.

She can feel her face again, she realizes then. Her lips and her cheeks when his burning hands touch her, before she allows herself to breathe in his warm air when his lips are on hers again.

"Paul," she tries to say, at some point in her half-awake state. He's gone immediately, only to return with the hot liquid again.

But she doesn't want to eat, she wants to talk, to think and to understand what is going on, but neither her brain nor her mouth can form anything comprehensible, so she just swallows.

She listens, though. He's talking, almost constantly. His words are a blur, meaningless repetitions of the same thing over and over again.

"You're going to be okay, Dawn," he says. "Just keep drinking, just like that, yes. Just keep breathing. You're going to be okay. You can't die, Dawn. You can't. You're going to be okay, Dawn, really, you are. Just keep drinking. Yes, just like that. You're going to be okay."

He says her name a lot. That's okay, though, because she likes it.

Then he says, "You have so much to live for, Dawn. You can't die. You have too much to live for."

She wonders if it's true.

She feels she's being held- no, not just held, but clutched onto, a desperate grasp of a heartbroken person.

She knows it's Paul.

She hears him talking, though her mind is unable to make out the words. She doesn't feel the tears, but through the words, the desperate words, heavy with old and new pain, she hears the sobs.

Her heart wrenches, and she wants to reach out to him, to comfort him, but her body is too heavy, her mind too weak, and she can't. A thread of a memory, you have too much to live for, his words, and she tries to remember something, but all she can think of is him.

She feels his arms around her and hears his crying, and she's frustrated, because there's nothing she can do, nothing, only hoping that holding her is enough comfort for him.

And then, finally, words that she can understand.

"-Dawn, I can't fail you, I can't, please, please stay alive-"

Yes. She can do something. She can do that. She can.

She opens her eyes.

It's burning.

She can feel her arms and legs again, and they're burning. She's pressed against something indescribably hot, its tendrils weaved through her legs, wrapped around her body, trapping her against its warmth.

Her mind is hazy, but she still manages to wonder what this heat next to her is. She opens her eyes and sees purple, and she thinks Paul.

She doesn't move, stays perfectly still as her mind tries to make sense of the situation. She stretches her senses: she's almost naked, wrapped up in Paul's equally unclothed embrace and soft fabric of what she thinks is a sleeping bag. Her mouth is dry, the aftertaste of something sweet lingering. She smells fire and sweat and cold, cold air. She hears the crackling of the fire, the roaring of the wind outside, the shuffling of Pokémon through the cave, and close to her, she hears his breathing.

She can see him very well, now. Her vision is no longer blurred, or dark at the edges. She can see the silhouette of his head, and the orange glow of the fire casting shadows on his face. His eyes are still closed.

She's fascinated. She remembers him from before, from years ago. His eyes dark and calculating and cold, his face all harsh lines as he spoke even harsher words. She remembers thinking of him as unfeeling, heartless, cold.

Ice.

But he isn't, she realizes now. He isn't ice. Fire, maybe, she wonders. But not open fire, she decides. Hidden, protected by walls. Walls of steel, harsh and cold, unrelenting, and closed off to almost everyone.

But not to her, she thinks, not anymore. She remembers his crying, his begging, the way he had held her and the way he was holding her now – he had closed his walls around her and had let her close to his fire.

She smiles and settles back against his heat, a different kind of warmth settling in her stomach, and promising herself not to let such a gift go to waste.

The next time she wakes, the burning feels less than before. Paul is still asleep. She wonders if she has to wake him.

She probably has to, she decides. She remembers the cold and the pain and the heavy, heavy feeling – something that still hasn't completely lifted – and she knows she has been close to dying.

She feels sick when she remembers that she had wanted to die. She remembers words, You have so much to live for, and her own doubt and she feels even worse.

Paul.

Her memories are vague and blurred, but she knows he had saved her, that he had cried for her, that he had let her close. And his words, those were his words, that she had so much to live for.

And she does. Her Pokémon, her family, her friends, her career-

She suddenly remembers why she came up on this mountain. An adventure, she had said, to become stronger. And to find herself, she had thought – but not said aloud, because her life was already perfect, wasn't it – to find a goal in life, a reason to live.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to slip in the darkness, she thinks. She's selfish and greedy and weak-

Paul moves against her and interrupts her thoughts.

He had begged her to stay alive. She needs to stay alive, for him. She can't explain her feelings, but remembers his words, his tears, his warmth, and determination floods through her.

So. It's decided, then. She will live. She wants to. Arceus, yes, she wants to.

Paul.

"Paul," she wants to say, but it comes out hoarse and unintelligible.

He wakes up anyway. He says her name and gets up, putting on some more clothes. The sleeping bag is immediately colder with him gone.

He wants to feed her more sweet hot liquid, but she shakes her head. "No," she says, and this time it does sound like a word.

She isn't thirsty, and she tells him that. She needs to pee. She tells him that, too. She's glad she can talk again.

He helps her out of the sleeping bag, and wraps her in a blanket. She doesn't feel her fingers, or her feet, and she has trouble walking. His hands are hot on her upper arms when he supports her.

She's trembling, and shivering, and he says it's a good thing, but it makes it even harder to move.

He looks away to give her some privacy, and then he puts her back in the sleeping bag. He gives her more of what he explains to be sugared water, and then he settles back next to her. It feels natural, even with so much of their skin touching.

"I'm not sleepy," she says. They're facing each other, the flames casting ever-changing shadows on his features.

"That's good," he replies. Then, after a pause. "You were almost dead."

"I know." And then, though she isn't sure why she tells him, "I wanted to die, then."

He tenses. "Why?" he asks first, and second, "Only then?"

She nods, and places her hands on his cheeks. She doesn't know why she does it. He has stubble, and his skin is rough. She still doesn't feel her fingers.

"Only then," she confirms. "As for why…" She pauses, thinking, but coming up with nothing. "It was easier, I think. It hurt, and I was alone, and everything that once seemed to matter was gone."

His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth a line as he stares at her. "What changed?"

She smiles. "You. You were there."

He blinks.

"You…" she momentarily hesitates, recalling what she knew of Paul's personality and that he probably wouldn't like to know that she had noticed his moment of weakness. There's also a small notion in her head, in her heart, telling her that she's forgetting something, something important, very important, but no further knowledge comes forth, and so she discards it in favor of the situation right now.

And she decides that she can't stay safe forever, she has to take a risk, and so she continues. "You were crying. You… were begging for me to stay alive."

She watches him intently, waiting for the first sign of anger, of shutting her out, but instead his face grows softer, the shadow in his eyes disappearing. Her heart expands in her chest and happiness surges through her.

"Dawn…" he whispers, and he slips a hand on her cheek. His eyes are beautiful, she thinks. Almost black, but not quite. Still grey.

And they're filled with feeling. So much feelings, it's threatening to overwhelm her, crashing over her in an enormous wave.

It's not cold, though. It's warm, like fire, spreading through her body and filling her with an incredible lightness.

"Paul," she says, and then she kisses him.

She doesn't want to leave the cave. She wants to stay here with Paul forever. The cave is like a dream, a nightmare turned wonderful, and outside is reality, reading to crash down on her again.

She knows it will hurt, just as she knows it's unavoidable.

And she knows it's time for her to wake up.

He sits in front of her on his Torterra, to keep her out of the wind, he had said. Not that it really matters now anymore; the mountains with their cold winds and snow have since long been left in the distance. Her arms are wrapped around him, and she's leaning against his back, comfortable and safe.

She doesn't want this to end. She likes this sort of adventure. It's new, it's exciting, but she's still safe, because it's Paul.

And there's this niggling feeling in the back of her mind, a presence that promises darkness as soon as it's unlocked, and it will be unlocked. And it will be soon, very soon. She's scared of what knowledge it'll bring, what feelings, and she hates her fear – it's polluting her last peaceful moments.

She hugs Paul closer.

"I can see the Pokémon Center," he says, suddenly. She leans to the side, to look past him, and there it is-

And just like that, it hits her. There's no escape possible.

A flash of disbelief, a futile attempt at denying, and then sharp, overwhelming guilt, leaving her with a sick feeling in her stomach. She clutches to Paul even stronger, only to let go as if burned.

"Dawn?" She hears his worry.

She needs a moment to recollect herself – her thoughts are a tangled mess, her feelings even more so – and when she responds, her voice is a whisper.

"Kenny."

A/N: Thank you very much for reading! I hope it was somewhat enjoyable so far, because this is really just one big experiment haha. The more I read over it, the more unsure I get about it, so I figured I'd just publish it and I'll see where it goes. Also, all my knowledge about hypothermia and almost freezing to death are completely theoretical, so my apologies if something was inaccurate. And I spent way too much time playing with MS Paint to create the cover haha.
Anyway, next chapter will be up in a week! And please let me know what you thought about this one!

Thank you!