He was a man of many nations, had a hundred souls and a hundred to go
He was a man of many nations, two hearts, two hands, it's a slippery slope
He had a fear of being naked, but you're any other man in another man's clothes
He was a man of many nations, of revelations, oh revelations
-"The Mending of the Gown" by Sunset Rubdown
After Ash leaves, you feel emptied of that whatever-it-was you felt during your battles. He'd been an insufferable prick at times, sure, with his holier-than-thou attitude towards your methods (and really, you took some pleasure from watching as your team mercilessly bulldozed over his Pokémon in your rare but always heated matches), but he had been constant, a thorn in your side that you never fully tried to dig out. And hadn't he beat you at the Lily of the Valley Conference at the end, after all you'd been through? Maybe you were secretly pleased by how much he had grown. You'll never admit it, of course, but you need Ash. You need him to be your rival, because when you're fighting him, he lights a fire inside you, which even Brandon can't do. He gives you purpose.
Somewhere along the way, he has become a part of your being, as vital as blood or air. In his absence, you struggle to figure out what to do with yourself. Your team rests inside their Pokéballs, cagey and bored. You haven't had a real fight in months, not since Junior Cup semi-finals. There is a pervasive sense of something missing from your life. You try and distract yourself with cheap booze and pot, but getting drunk and getting high are pale imitations of what you used to have, which was lost when he went away.
She meets you for the first proper time when you've hit rock bottom. You're at a nice little café in Floaroma Town, nursing a cappuccino gone cold and slightly greasy after an hour of not drinking it. An unopened paperback with a splotch of dried ketchup on the cover sits next to your right hand, which is remarkably thin and white. Your hair is dirty and you smell because you've been pissing away your time in a motel for three days, and the waiters - hoity-toity types with crisp bow ties and spotless aprons - eye you with undisguised revulsion. You definitely stick out like a sore thumb in an establishment like this, serving fancy cakes and teas with a goddamned picket fence surrounding the outdoor seating area. When she sits down at your table, she has to clear her throat several times before you even know she's there.
"Hello."
Her voice quivers, as though she's nervous. There's something vaguely posh about the way she speaks, like she's one of the high-end Hearthome residents. She's in an off-the-collar pink sweater and dark leggings, her only concession to wealth being a pair of designer sunglasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her piplup, which you recognize as the annoying little blue thing that used to cheer on Ash and company, and which you only occasionally glimpsed battling, scowls at you by her feet and puffs out its tiny chest. It can't support its own weight, however, standing on tiptoes, and immediately topples over, squawking in alarm. You laugh; so does she, surprisingly, while the little bird makes rude gestures and expends the worst of its ire.
After an awkward silence, you begin to ask her about her life and how she's doing. You're not particularly interested in what she does, but you do pay attention. There's more to her than you realized, you notice with wonder. She had always been silent, a background character in the story of Ash against You, and you wrote her off easily as someone of insignificance. She tells you about her dreams, which are nothing short of grand, about how she's going to work harder than ever to ensure that she gets a place in the Grand Festival this year. She talks about another girl named Zoey whom she's planning to beat, and you see a look in her eyes that reminds how your own rival used to be.
Then she asks you about your plans. You fidget, taking in the dirt caked under your fingernails and the grimy slash of soot across one wrist, confessing that you don't really have any at the moment. Unexpectedly, you feel embarrassed; you've gotten used to not giving a shit, but now there's this girl in front of you who's a rich model and smells like strawberries, talking about her goals while you haven't showered in forever and your team is rotting away in their tiny plastic cages.
"I suppose I don't have anything to do," you admit. Watering down the truth. It's such an obvious lie (just look at you) and you think that when you look at her again all you'll find is contempt at the pitiful sack of waste you've become.
But she's smiling. "Well, if you aren't busy, how about dinner sometime?" You raise your eyebrows, and she blushes. "Um, I've got some coupons to this diner that are going to expire soon. They only apply if you're a party of two or more, so I was kind of hoping I could bring a guest."
"Wouldn't have figured you for the diner type. Cheap, greasy food isn't exactly up your alley. I was thinking more, let's see, kale salads and black bean burgers instead."
It's a dumb joke. She still laughs. "God, Paul, just because I'm a Pokéstylist doesn't mean I'm averse to french fries and chocolate milkshakes. Or that I'm vegetarian." You feel a little lighter when she says that, like you've dodged a missile.
"So." Dawn takes off her shades. "You still haven't given me a straight answer? Diner or no?"
"Hm."
"Oh, come on. It's on me, alright? They're my coupons, after all." She sticks out her lower lip. "What's the matter? Afraid to get a little down and dirty?"
Innuendo or not, your stomach definitely wants to take her up on her offer. Not counting the coffee you still haven't drunk, the only meal you've had is a bag of chips and a protein bar. Burgers and fries with a cold soda sounds like heaven.
"Since I'm not busy, I'll go. This diner better be good, though."
"Meet me there at six," she says, sliding you a piece of paper. Getting up, and trailed by her (still angry) piplup, she pays for the lemonade she's ordered and waltzes out the door, shooting you a wink in the process.
She's quite nice, you think.
Back at your room, you shower and rinse the filth off of your body, shampooing your hair so thoroughly you're sure you've rubbed your scalp raw because it stings. You take your clothes down to the laundromat because you sure as hell aren't going on a dinner date with Dawn looking like a teenage hobo, nope.
Checking the address Dawn's given you, you walk around Floaroma for a while until you come across a brightly-lit building shaped like a bus. The exterior's painted a shade of cherry-red that hurts your eyes. Little flower boxes (true to form) hang from chains underneath each window. Your stomach rumbles at the smells coming through the entrance - grilled meats, pies and cakes, fruit at the peak of ripeness.
"Hey!" You turn and see Dawn jogging towards you. She's panting heavily, but not a piece of her ensemble - blouse, skirt, sunhat - looks out of place. "You got here earlier than I thought you would."
"I'm punctual. Shall we go in?"
Something's been bothering you ever since the run-in at the café, and it's only when the waitress has given you your menus and two glasses of ice water that it begins to crystallize. You've never once sat down to eat with Ash and his friends, much less Dawn, of all people - it would have been anathema for both of you. To be truthful, you haven't eaten properly since you started your journey, living off of the occasional can of baked beans or bag of trail mix. Now you're at a restaurant with a girl you've barely spoken to before, and she's buying you dinner.
The old you would have declined her invitation curtly, too proud to accept what is, in all honesty, verging closer to a pity meal than an actual friendly supper between two people. But you don't really care now. You have officially run out of fucks to give.
"I hear the pasta's good," she quips nonchalantly, scanning her menu. "It's really nice here, I've heard from the online reviews. Everything's all sourced naturally, they've got free-range Torchic and grass-fed Tauros, and they actually make their fruit preserves by hand, so the jams and fillings they use in their pastries aren't so artificially sweet that it's like having a bag of sugar explode in your mouth. Seriously, have you had maraschino Pecha berries on a fruit tart?" She wrinkles her nose. "Ick."
Then she claps a hand to her mouth, cheeks tinged the faintest shade of pink. "Oh. Crap. Was that a 'kale salads and black bean burgers' moment? Sorry. Really. God, it's like I pick up this calorie-counting crap from Paris and the other models. Okay. I'll stop now." Dawn gnaws on her lower lip. "Just so you know, if you get a burger and fries they'll mark it a further 10 percent off, so..."
You're staring at her as though she's a different person - which, to some extent, is true. The old Dawn wouldn't haven spoken to you for all the money in the world, nor would she be chatting about something so casual as what to order for dinner. You were Ash's enemy first and foremost, but you were also the enemy of his friends by simple association. She has smoothed a year's worth of defeats and ugly words over with some talk about burgers and coupons and meals for two.
You don't understand. You feel antsy, trapped in a space where the walls are closing in on you faster and faster.
"What's your hidden agenda?" you ask.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about-" You gesture vainly at your surroundings, the checker-clothed tables and neon lights. "-all this. Do you really have coupons?"
"Of course I do." She says this plainly, bubbly as ever, but you're not stupid. You've learned to read body language down to the tiniest detail, first to anticipate oncoming attacks in Gym matches and then to see the secrets people guard so closely. Dawn is an open book and there's a dark glitter in her eyes that tells you she's starting to get a little angry, the flap of a beautifly's wings that might eventually progress into storm territory if you push further. "You ready to order?"
"Sure." Pragmatism takes over; you're in no position to deny a meal if it comes your way free of charge.
Dawn eats her fettuccine alfredo quietly, sometimes glancing at you when she thinks you aren't looking. Well, you are. Your own burger is good enough - great, actually - to keep you distracted. It's been so long since you had something cooked for you - and cooked well, for that matter - that you wolf everything down in minutes, fries and all, and still want more. Politely, you do not order again. You still have a scrap of your former haughty pride left to keep silent and drink up the last milky dregs of your chocolate shake while Dawn chews on thinly sliced chicken and generously-sauced noodles.
It's getting cold when you walk outside, Dawn not so far behind. "Thanks for being the dinner buddy," she says. You just nod, at a loss for things to say until she invites you back to her apartment for a cup of coffee.
"You live here?"
"Not really. The agency set it up for Pokestylists passing through the area, since a lot of people come here during this time of the year and hotels are usually overbooked. I'm the only one staying there right now."
You mutter something about not wanting to intrude. How you wish you were back at your dingy little room; you simply can't get a handle on Dawn. The room brings promises of lazy highs and not caring. Her kindness makes you feel overexposed, a slide under a magnifying glass.
"Are you sure?" There is a plea in her voice.
"I'm-"
"You don't have plans, do you?"
Can you deny her?
No.
You can't.
"I guess not." You hold up a hand to stop her as she prepares to tell you, Thanks so much, because you don't think you'll be able to find an adequate response to that. "But first, put this on." Shrugging off your jacket, you hand it to her. "You're shivering."
"Thanks so much," Dawn says breathily, accepting the jacket with grace and draping it over her shoulders to form a makeshift shawl.
Dutifully, you do not reply.
Her apartment is nicer than she lets on. More a villa, actually. She brews coffee in the kitchen while you lounge on a spotless white couch and enjoy the panoramic view of Floaroma's flower fields. Not that you care for flowers; you're just idling.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Dawn pipes up. She hands you your mug and sets down a bowl of sugar. "Cream's in the fridge, if you need any."
You shake your head, taking your coffee black. Everything here sits in such stark contrast to your own dodgy living situation that you feel slightly embarrassed. You can't even imagine what it would be like if it was the opposite, with you playing host to Dawn. Absolutely disgraceful.
"I'm only in town for another week," she tells you, shrugging. Your jacket is folded over her lap, a crisp square of fabric. "I didn't really expect to see you here. You're not the type of person who seems like he would go to Floaroma." Stirring sugar into her cup, she asks, "Tell me, Paul, why are you here in the first place?"
"Going home to Reggie's for awhile. I didn't expect to see you, either. Aren't you busy?"
She flutters a hand. "I'm on leave. My manager, Hermione, thinks I haven't been doing well lately, so I'm supposed to get rid of whatever stress I might have before I can get back to modelling. Basically, it's a paid vacation. Floaroma was one of my first choices, because of the scenery and the local culture." Her eyes narrow, examining a sugar cube. "There was a contest here I wanted to attend, but I missed the deadline by days."
"Coincidence we both ended up in the same town."
Dawn's lips curve into a grin. "Yeah. Coincidence."
A hush falls over the both of you. God, why can't you talk? Just say something. Anything. You've drained your coffee and your right leg is jittering uncontrollably. You need to get out of this room right now.
"Reggie called."
The declaration pierces the silence like a gunshot. For a second, you are speechless, half-risen with your mug dangling from your fingers. "What?" Indignance floods through you, hot and bitter. "He has your number? When did he-"
"We stayed in contact after Ash left, you know." She looks at him with an accusation rising to her mouth. "He says you haven't spoken to him since Lily of the Valley happened."
"I didn't have the time."
Liar.
"Your brother's worried about you, Paul."
"That's none of your business."
"No, it's not. It's Reggie's. He wants to know if you're okay."
You throw up your hands. "Tell him I'm fine, then."
"Sorry, but I can't tell him something that's obviously false. You look like hell. What have you been doing since semi-finals?"
"I said that it's none of your business." You drop your cup in the sink and head for the door. "Tell Reggie that if he wants to talk to me, he can do it himself, not by proxy."
"Reggie's worried sick, you asshole!" she almost yells. Her voice has gone up in volume, her cheeks blotchy. "Geez, okay, I know you don't like getting help, but the least you could do is help yourself out! None of what you're doing is healthy and-"
You scowl. "How would you know?"
"You were the only junkie sitting at Le Jardin. I notice things too, Paul, I'm not dumb."
"Fucking hell. Is this what the diner thing was all about? You trying to bring me back to the good and narrow?" You scowl, barely holding back the temptation to jab at Dawn as you speak each word, your manner deadly serious. "Listen. You want to tell Reggie the truth? Call him, say that he can go screw off. And while you're at it, you can set an example yourself by leaving me the hell alone."
You're getting out. The door slams behind you, your breath coming in heavy bursts, and as you walk home, you realize you've left your jacket behind.
A shower of light erupts from the Pokeball and takes on the shape of your electivire. It looks at you curiously as you toss the note on the ground.
"Thunderbolt," you command.
One touch of a tail is all it takes. The paper bursts into flame and shrivels up into ash. You call your electivire back and kick the remains, scuffing them into the ground with your shoe, leaving a sooty smear on the cement. Whatever. Not your problem.
You fall onto a bed with squeaky springs, pulling a ratty blanket over your chest for warmth. A digital clock glows a sickly shade of green by your bedside. It's not even midnight, so you think what the hell, you could do something else to pass the rest of the day.
Sweet-sour smoke curls upward, mixing with the gray wallpaper until it seems that the whole room has become temporarily disembodied and the walls have become wavy and incorporeal. Two drags, then three, then four. You can still taste the dinner on your tongue and traces of the coffee Dawn served you.
Inhale deeply, exhale deeply. Just - just damn everything and everyone.
Now you really can't care, even if you tried.
A series of knocks on your door jars you from an uneasy sleep. Blearily, you wipe the gunk out of your eyes and check what time it is.
6:47 AM? Seriously, what the hell.
"Open up, Paul. I know you're in there." Pause. "I brought cinnamon rolls. I had to get up at five in the morning for these, so you better open this door and let me in and eat these cinnamon rolls or I'm going to have my togekiss Aura Sphere your mangy head-"
You open up, and Dawn pauses mid-tirade. She's got a massive paper bag in both hands. "Um."
There's still a pall of smoke hanging about, which is only dispelled a moderate amount by opening the window. Dawn coughs and fans her nose. "Gross. Is this pot?"
"So what if it is?" The full impact of her question hits you. "And how would you know?"
"Some of the models smoke between shows. Relieves tension, they say. I wouldn't know, because I haven't tried any." She glowers at you while you just take the bag and set it on the tiny table provided, unimpressed.
The cinnamon buns are melting and gooey and, most importantly, fresh out of the oven. You sit on the mattress, legs folded. Dawn leans against the radiator, licking cream from her fingertips.
"How'd you find me?"
"I played a game of chance," she explains. "Found out which motels were the seediest, searched for you in the guest log, and I wound up here."
"Sorry about the smoke," you apologize in between bites of pastry.
"That's fine."
"And I suppose I'm sorry about last night as well, so there's that."
Dawn looks at you out of the corner of her eye, chewing on one last bite. "Just to clarify, dinner had nothing to do with me being Reggie's in-between. Did you ever think that maybe I did it because I'm a nice person and you looked sort of down on your luck? No need to be so cynical all the time. There's no ulterior motive beyond me wanting to snag a good deal."
"Did you ever think that maybe I didn't need or want your pity?" You're still brooding. "I'm not some sick animal you can just pick up on the side of the road and nurse back to health with friendship and sunshine. Don't patronize me."
She purses her lips. "Of course you're not a sick animal. I've been privy to the matches between you and Ash, if you hadn't noticed. I know what you're capable of." Dawn crumples up her napkin and tosses it in the trash can. "So why don't you stop patronizing me."
"Fine."
"Fine!"
Huffily, Dawn shoves the rest of the bag into the garbage. She rubs a hand across her forehead. "Yeah, this isn't going to work out as well as I thought it would."
"Whatever you're planning, I never intended to be part of it," you retort. "Reggie can-"
"This smoke is way too much." Rummaging in her purse, Dawn pulls out a Pokeball and sends out her togekiss, which takes up a whole fifth of the room on its own and does nothing to lessen your discomfort.
"Gust," she orders. "Lightly, though."
Flapping its wings, the broad-chested flier whips up a strong breeze, carrying the rest of your late-night going-ons through the thin gap of window and wall, and bringing a week's worth of empty cans rattling out from under your bed.
"Paul, are you drinking?" Dawn gawps, staring at the mess looking scandalized.
Man, don't you wish you were drinking right now so that you could avoid all of this shit. And yes, it's your fault for leaving them in such an open place and not dumping them earlier, and also for letting her in, and also for screwing up a lot of things which appear to have invoked the wrath of karma and condensed every ounce of unwanted parenting into the girl standing before you now, bearing all sorts of judgment, but you can't really be bothered to do much else other than think about things that don't matter. Like how you're just going to go right ahead and keep on messing up after she leaves, after you yell at her again, after she gives you a scathing telling-off and reminds of you of Reggie and how you still haven't called, terrible brother that you are.
You don't articulate all that, obviously.
"Not that often."
Dawn chokes. "Not that often? Paul, I just - I can't - you get up."
"Why?"
"Right now. Get up. And get me a trash bag."
"Here," you mutter, handing her your satchel. "Might as well."
She doesn't even stop you. You would have expected her to yell some more and demand that you go downstairs to the lobby and get a proper trash bag, not just hand her your old traveling pack like a lazy ass. But she just scoops up the empty cans and drops them in, where they clatter and clink noisily, and goes outside. You follow because you have to, because her gravitational field is pulling you along simply by virtue of being who she is and you don't have the will to stop the events currently in motion.
You've really grown complacent in your time off. The old you, the old Paul who sneered and wiped Ash's team in under an hour, would never have-
Oh, screw your excuses.
You find yourself on a patch of dusty ground near the eastern windmills, hands in your pockets while Dawn unloads your pack roughly. All the cans spill onto the hard soil, dusty for lack of rain. She sends out a quilava and tells it to use Flamethrower, full power. Heat waves push against you, the metal warping and eventually melting into a shapeless gray puddle with the continued stream of fire issuing from the quilava's throat.
Her piplup is next. You can almost swear that its beady eyes get even beadier as it takes in the sight of you, bedraggled and badly dressed.
"Hydro Pump. Don't overdo it."
A jet of water strikes the still smoldering remains of your previous late-night binges, hissing as it makes contact with the white-hot aluminum. You squint against the steam, damp coating your skin. When the penguin's done, all that's left is a lumpy disk that looks like an amateur attempt at baking a cookie.
"Are you done?" you mutter, tone sardonic.
"Not yet. You," she says pointedly, doing the finger-jab you had held back for the sake of politeness, "are going to take this to the dump. You're going to throw it away. You're going to promise not to do anything stupid like this drinking and smoking thing again. Also, you're going to call Reggie, say sorry, and make up, because you're being irresponsible and a total jerkoff." She glowers, and you think you know where her piplup gets its signature look of death.
"Did you really have to put on a spectacle all the way out here just to prove a point? The power plant is already open, you know. Someone could have seen you and thought you were an arsonist."
Dawn flushes red. "It's symbolic, okay? The cans represent your problem. When you throw them away, you're not just getting rid of garbage, you're getting rid of whatever issues you haven't sorted out. Or at least you're on the road to sorting them out. Whatever. Just go to the dump with me, okay?"
"Okay." You give a world-weary sigh as though you're sick of this, you're sick of Dawn barging in and telling you what to do and more crap about how the old you would have given her a once-over and not paid attention to a word of this drivel, but you aren't sick of anything, and telling yourself otherwise is telling yourself another lie.
You're glad someone is taking control, because you haven't been all that aware as of late. Lights on, nobody's home - except Dawn's been moving in, cleaning out the dust, maybe rearranging your furniture in ways you don't like but God it's something.
The gates to the dump are adorned with a "NO TRESPASSING" sign, all capitals and written in bright orange. As if that would deter you.
You scale the fence easily, though Dawn struggles to get over the top. Once she's in, she scans the sea of garbage and claps a hand to her mouth. "Gross."
"Your idea," you remind her.
"Yeah, I guess it was. You ready?"
You look at what you're carrying, the disk still marked in places with logos, stained with mud and bits of rot. "If this is symbolic," you say, mulling the idea over, "then it would be best if it happened in someplace relevant."
"So you need to find, like, some auspicious clearing to do it?"
"Yes."
Dawn shrugs, wiping dirt off of her boots on the metal mesh. "Suit yourself."
When you find the spot, you know it's right because it's almost a perfect circle. Trash bags lit softly by the rising sun are ringed around you like spectators.
Your electivire materializes, tails sparking with electricity. Its yellow fur is still stained in parts from sand and soot, reminders of the Junior Cup, when you faltered for the very first time against an opponent who had previously been easy prey but had been, in that match, more powerful than you ever had been. You have been neglectful. Brash. Reggie had always told you that you needed to open up or that you would get hurt, sooner or later, and you had. Every part of you feels stretched wire-thin, taut and uncomfortable with the memory of a loss that shouldn't mean as much as it should.
When your own Pokemon flinches from your touch - your starter who has been with you from the very beginning and who has always been the toughest member of your team, never showing cowardice, always unerringly cold - you feel a dull lance of pain shoot up your spine. All you do is rest your hand, so thin, on its shoulder, and when its dark-ringed eyes turn to yours and search for an order, you give it.
The disk flies off, ends smoking from a Thunder. The sound of it thrums in your ears. You can taste old vomit in your mouth, smell the sour sweat-and-smoke smell clinging to your clothes.
"Wow," says Dawn, coming up behind you. "That was - did it help? At all?"
Instead of giving her an answer, you decide to head back the way you came. Her arm shoots out and stops you before you can make it out, past the putrefying food and the unused appliances. "Wait."
"You got your symbolism. What else do you need?"
"You left your jacket back at the apartment, dummy."
Should you?
Something prods your back, and you see your electivire grinning stupidly. Practically nodding as much as it can with its massively thick neck.
You shouldn't.
But you do, anyway.
"I kind of miss him," she admits, on the same couch with the same cups of coffee cupped in their hands. "Scratch that, I really miss him. So much that it hurts."
Her Pokemon are eating with your own, side-by-side. It's disconcerting, honestly, to see your froslass humming pleasantly along with her mamoswine, or your drapion sharing food with a buneary. Pokeball stasis keeps them from feeling hunger, preserved as tightly condensed energy, but they haven't had a good meal in a while and you were feeling guilty, especially after what happened in the morning. Dawn had gone with you while you loaded up on the standard dry pellets at the mart. The clerk even recognized you and asked for an autograph. You'd given him one, nice and neat, but your hands were sweaty while you wrote.
You're coming out of the fever you were in, bit by bit.
"I mean, he did a lot for me while we were traveling. So did Brock. I'm not sure if you knew about him, but Brock was the tall, tan guy. He's a Kanto Gym Leader, actually. He used to cook really good meals for us." She clears her throat. "I was, frankly, really terrified when I started out my journey. I'd been favoring the idea of becoming a Coordinator, but I also wanted to prove that I was strong enough to be out in the wild. Ash had gone through other journeys in places like Hoenn and Johto, so he was smarter about it than I was. He showed me that being Trainer-strong wasn't important, that I could be strong in other ways as well. Mainly on stage during Contests.
"It was really fun. Totally lived up to all I'd heard about before starting. And pretty scary too, at times. Those Team Galactic people, they could be really evil, terrifyingly evil. There were all these ancient gods, and a man named Cyrus. Did you hear about what he did? He was trying to rewrite reality and build his own world from scratch by chaining Palkia and Dialga to his will. He had this talisman, the Red Chain, that he took from the Lake Spirits. Horrible, the way he hurt them to get what he wanted, just horrible." A deep breath. "I used to worry about you when we saw you, and especially when you were battling Ash, because you reminded me of him. Cyrus, I mean. He was so determined to realize his dream that he caused a lot of damage. You were just as determined as he was. Sometimes I had nightmares of you going over the edge, just losing it and really... really hurting Ash in a fight."
"Are you still worried about me now?" you ask her.
She gives you a funny look. "Not as much, no. I think you've turned out fine enough for a guy who used to be a cruel, cynical, emotionless, moody-"
You hold up a hand to stop her from going on. "I think I've got the gist."
"That you were a douchebag," she stresses.
"Yeah."
It's so strange, that you can sit around and reminisce like a pair of old friends. You've barely known her for more than a few days, yet she has formed her own niche in your roster of people you know. And she doesn't hate you, either.
"Thinking?" she interrupts, pulling you out of your reverie.
"Hm."
"You can tell." Dawn leans in closer, perched on the edge of her seat. "Promise I won't bite."
"Have you heard from him?"
"Huh. Let's see, he hasn't written at all, I have no idea if he even uses e-mail, and the reception on his PokeNav must be terribly spotty because I can't seem to reach him night or day. In short, no. Haven't heard a peep from Ash." She gives a casual shrug, a 'so what are you going to do about it' nonchalance attached. "I know he's in Unova."
Unova. A whole region away. Vacantly, you wonder how much it would cost to get on a plane and fly there. How long it would take for you to meet up with your old rival. Whether he would remember you or not, if you would battle, if he would show you that the one victory was a fluke or if he has really become a better Trainer than you.
Decisions, decisions.
"You miss him, don't you." Her voice is whisper-soft, the coffee scalding the roof of your mouth as you take a drink to ease the lull. "Even if you don't say it out loud."
There's no reason to deny it.
You tell her, "I do."
And that's that, you think. The end-all. You've given her your answer.
So when you feel the cushions shift, smell the honey-scent of her perfume next to yours, mingling with the unhappy miasma of your too-old shirt and your too-old jeans, you are just a tiny bit shocked.
Just a tiny bit.
You are sick of the hotel and its age and how everything about it is fading and sad. You pack up your belongings, shower before you go, and toss your room key to the woman in the lobby, who sniffs and mouths, "Teenagers." Her chatot cocks its head and squawks, "Welcome to the Orchid Hotel!" as you are pushing past the doors, covering your eyes with a hand to block the sunlight.
On a whim, you buy some honey from the farm to the north and slather it on a tree, waiting for a female combee to arrive. When it's evening and you're still sitting there, waiting, you feed the rest of the jar to your ninjask, who seems to enjoy it a lot.
"Hello," Dawn says as you walk up the path leading back to the center of the town. She's smiling. "Are you leaving so soon?"
"Not yet."
Her eyes flicker to your pack. "You need a place to stay?"
"I'll camp."
"There's an open couch at the apartment. Come by if you feel like it."
In the end, you do feel like it. Dawn lights up when you show up at her front door. "Hey!"
"I needed to pick up my jacket. You've been holding it ransom."
She laughs. "Get in. Drink, if you want any?"
"No thanks." Tiredly, you settle against the sofa, propping the pillow Dawn gives you under your head and closing your eyes. You can hear her brushing her teeth and going through her nighttime routine in the room adjacent, and you don't close your eyes until she says good night and goes off to sleep.
"I'm going back to Hearthome tomorrow."
You're sitting on a bench in the flower field, just the two of you with some tea from Le Jardin in plastic cups. Dawn fidgets with some bangles on her wrist, as though the thought of leaving makes her apprehensive.
"When?" you ask.
"Nine in the morning. I'll probably have a bunch of shoots I need to cram in my first week back, it's going to be such a hassle..."
You tune her out because you're focusing on the fact of her leaving, which devours your attention whole, forces you to mindlessly gravitate towards it each time you attempt to put it out of your mind.
"Paul?"
"Sorry, it's nothing."
"Can you do something for me?"
You can. You will.
"Can you come see me off when I leave?" Dawn takes your hand in her own. "Please?"
You will.
You ride with her to the terminal, wearing your old jacket again. All the way there, the both of you sit in silence. It's only been a few days, but to you, it feels longer. Once, she falls asleep against your shoulder and you don't move at all, afraid you'll wake her up, only giving her a light push when the bus has stopped and you're due to get off.
It's dark when you arrive, and the terminal is chilly. Dawn naps, while you're just content to sit and wait with her. A first-tier match between Volkner and a new challenger, a girl with neon-yellow pigtails, is being broadcast on one of the television screens. You think about going back, collecting all the badges again, starting from scratch. Not the best plan, considering there's still a year until the next conference, but it's a plan.
Eventually, her flight number gets called over the intercom. Dawn gets up, as do you, preparing to wish her goodbye. She stops and finds a scrap of paper, a pen, and scribbles something down on it. Her cheeks are ruddy from the chill, but her eyes are as bright as ever and she's smiling in a way that makes you feel a little bit better about what you're going to do after she leaves and you're alone once more.
"My number," she says, handing you the slip. "You better call."
"I will."
"And there's someone else you-"
"Reggie. Got it."
She opens her arms to hug you; you return the embrace roughly, but as best as you can. Still getting used to it, after all.
"Thanks, by the way. For putting up with me, even though you didn't have to."
Dawn laughs. "No need to worry. You're going to be fine."
And so as her plane leaves, you don't feel crushed. Certainly, you're starting to miss her and the rhythm you had established with her in your brief time together, but she has oriented you on your map, given you a sense of direction you previously lacked.
You find a phone and dial Reggie's number, something you haven't done in a long time. As you hear your brother's voice, you wonder about the oncoming year and how you're going to spend it, of the people you might get in touch with and the training you're planning to start again. Then you wonder why you're worrying about all the tiny details so early on, because there really isn't a need to worry. You'll figure things out, one step at a time.
Everything will be okay.
a/n: sorry about how long it to get to this and if i made paul ooc i'm sorry about that too