My first fic, and it's angsty. I know that I'm not the most talented of writers, and I couldn't even begin to comprehend the mind of a Pokemon, but if you must criticize, try to be constructive. A bad review can really bring down someone's day.

I don't own Pokémon.

Fallen Petals

I see many things.

I often see many foolish, silly arguments happen. I am the always silent observer, sometimes intervening to prevent catastrophe, but most of the time letting nature take its course – and I always do the latter in matters of affection.

It was like a fairytale gone wrong, almost. He was arrogant, protective, experienced, and never without an adoring damsel at his side. She was innocent, naïve, sweet, and always falling over herself to apologize for something that had never been her fault in the first place.

Then they met.

He seemed aloof, but I could always read the feelings in his eyes. Endlessly critical, endlessly determined to try and make himself seem like the perfect model. He had that sparkly feeling in his eyes, the one that I'd forgotten for so long. A challenge.

Males. So egotistical.

That childish little Frisbee whizzed around and practically begged to be caught. So he did. The admiration showed for a moment.

Then it was quickly channelled into anger at the first remark.

She was short-tempered, and it showed. The shouting on the beach. The complaining of neighbours living in the resort later. Then, in a way I shall never understand, he scaled down that cliff in less than ten seconds and crossed the beach. Her introduction was as good a reason as any to flash around talent. The poses, the obnoxious comments, the boasting. It was all very dramatic, as if there was somebody filming, as if he needed to keep up his silly little image all the time.

Then after that, the Trio of Fools came.

'Jessie. James.' And the silly little mousy excuse for a Meowth.

Nothing like some truly un-frightening 'danger' to form a rivalry.

There were many other incidents after that, of course, but it would be tiring to go into them all. I'm not sure when it did start to happen. Perhaps when the pact was agreed, to maintain a friendly rivalry; perhaps when I smashed into that hard ground, and he realized that there was more than one good co-ordinator in the world; perhaps when the fireworks lit up the sky with their dazzling beauty, a feeling all of us shared somehow; but most likely when that first, crimson red rose flew through the air and with it, the first seeds of admiration beginning to grow.

There was the confusion – that was plain, easy to understand – and then there was the mutual affection – that was more difficult. It involved long self-arguments and unclear comments from other parties. And finally was that saving-each-others' lives business. Perhaps it was simply human conscience, and then the need to repay a debt. Or perhaps it was more than that.

But every rose has thorns.

They argued, too, a lot, in fact almost every time they met. It was the strength of their 'friendship' – it kept them going, the snide comments, the angry retorts.

Still, the roses began to grow in number, as the friendliness blossomed through the seasons.

A blossoming flower is fragile.

A single flame, a single cut, can strip it of its beauty and life, leaving an unspoken sadness, a lifeless shell, hanging alone.

I cannot remember well that passionate outburst which sparked off the flame, but the fire grew and grew as they avoided contact with each other, burning through hearts and minds, leaving behind emotionless shells of ash.

I do recall, however, one scene, a scene that tells best that something dead cannot blossom back into life.

It was a winter, a fresh, clean winter, and the sun shone blindingly between showers of snow. Everywhere, it was white – yet white scarred with footprints, small, dainty ones of Pokémon, and the larger, clumsier ones of people.

And then there were drips of blood on that white canvas, too.

Rose petals.

Rose petals, stained dark yet still not dying. Ice does not let anything die – it allows them to cling onto life, then buries them away into a dark corner of the world.

I stepped over, lightly, delicately, almost afraid of shattering the crisp, tense air. I bent down and stroked a blood-red petal gently.

The sight of my vivid, scarlet rose against a fallen petal seemed sorrowful, almost nostalgic in a way.

Then I left.

It flurried, healing the wounds in the earth, and the petals were lost forever under the pure, clean blanket of snow.