The morning he walks out into is cold and grey, everything muffled by a coat of freshly fallen snow. His muscles still ache from last night's training session and the mountain air is as thin and unrelenting as ever, but the feel of winter wind blowing against his skin is energizing.
Yawning, he stretches out the kinks in his back and exhales, wondering what day it is. He'd taken a calendar with him to the cave when he first arrived, but somewhere along the hike to the mountain's peak he'd dropped his backpack and lost the calendar in the snow. Maybe it's February. Maybe late November. It's hard to keep track of time in a place where it matters so little. Absently, he considers what it must be like in Goldenrod City, the holiday wreaths hung up on every doorway and the lights flashing festive red, green, gold. Or in Pallet Town, his mother cooking Tauros brisket until it was fork-tender, Oak and Daisy coming over with sweet breads and a jug of homemade eggnog, Blue arriving late and red-cheeked.
Charizard has woken and started a crackling fire in the pit when he returns. There's a few containers of leftover stew packed in ice, so he dumps them into the kettle and sets it over the flames, breaking off sprigs of rosemary growing on Venasaur's back and crumbling them over the pot. Most of his Pokemon are still sleeping off yesterday's workout - he sees Espeon curled up on Snorlax's belly, Blastoise snoring loudly with its cannons pressed against the wall, Lapras serenely resting its head on a bed of leaves. Wondering where Pikachu is, he looks and find the rodent napping happily in his backpack, ears twitching gently as it dreams. Tenderly, he scratches its belly and it gives a soft purr of approval. His team's worked hard and they've got a right to be tired. Today, he'll let them all rest, and tomorrow-
A shriek from the mouth of the cave startles him out of his reverie and turns his attention toward the pidgeot landing outside, its beak closed around a piece of paper. Blue's, he thinks as he takes the paper and unrolls it. It's a letter.
Red-
You're the only person I know who would spend their holiday all huddled up in the shittiest shithole in Kanto. It's a miracle
you haven't gotten frostbite yet.
Gramps and I went over to your mom's house for dinner a week ago. Food was great. Couldn't bring you any brisket 'cause we
ate it all and it would spoil anyway, but there's some rolls and cider in Pidgeot's bag.
Come down sometime. I'll whoop your ass in a battle just like the good old days.
Smell ya later, loser.
-Blue
Red smiles and pockets the letter, reaching up and untying the white box on pidgeot's neck. The bird peers at him curiously as he ruffles the plumage on its chest.
"Thanks," he says. Blue's pidgeot caws sharply and spreads its wings for flight, wheeling around once in the air before flying off.
The stew's just starting to bubble as he returns, box in his hands. He takes out the letter and looks it over a second time, taking in the sight of Blue's familiar slanted handwriting, before he places it with the rest of the letters Blue's sent.
Maybe he'll leave the mountain. Someday.
Pikachu nudges his knee, awake and hungry. He opens the box and tears it half a roll, eating the other half. It's good - soft, buttery, lightly sugared, and tasting of home. After the stew's done cooking, he gives each of his Pokemon a bowl but doesn't take one for himself. Instead, he eats another roll, this one crescent-shaped, and chews slowly.
He hasn't eaten anything like this in a very long time.