A/n: This began its life as a fill on the pokanon kink meme; I've done a few things there, but I think this is the best and most polished, and so it's the fic I've chosen to deanon with! I hope y'all like it.

I don't own aught but the fic.

rosa de desierto

(the boy from Orre)

i: foreign land

Coming here was a mistake.

Strike One for Wes, running-from, not thinking about where he was running-to. Kanto, paintbox Kanto, perfect Kanto. Under the Indigo League, the first League in the East. Kanto with Vermilion shimmering sea-sunsets, Lavender ghost-whispers in radio static, Cerulean sweet and bright by the cape, Saffron paved with gold. Kanto land of heroes and devils and three birds bright with ice, lightning and fire. Kanto where rain falls common as tears, all fine and green with summer.

He hates this place.

A thief should not hate riches; he should merely hate the fact that the riches do not yet belong to him. In bare Orre where the class divide is sharper than knives that worldview fit him well. But here-here are riches all around. Rich men and rich land, overflowing with water and vegetation and Pokémon ripe for catching. Berries swell to ripeness on the trees, out in the open for anyone to pick; Wes knows they should be caged with polythene and wire and chemicals, protected like the treasures they are, sold for dear prices(unless you know the five-finger discount so well as he does). Here is plenty, here is cornucopia. It strikes him as obscene, profligate. World as whore, all its assets on display. Fetid fecundity.

It's so damned pretty. All picturesque mountains and flower fields, fluffy white clouds and exquisite sunrises, quaint small villages with tiled-roof houses and grand cities of stone and shining glass. Wes doesn't like pretty. He doesn't trust it not to deceive him, or to be able to stand up for itself. He was pretty, once, when he came to Team Snagem, and that got him the same place pretty always does. He's cultivated sharpness and hardness and roughness since then; he's worked hard on his thorns and spikes. He looks at the Kanto youths his own age, preening in their finery, all smooth touchable skin like saffron milk, carefully styled hair in the colours of flowers; he looks at his own rough tanned hide, callused leather, sunbattered with all the hate their holy Ho-oh can muster, at his hair all ragged and matted and tangled, and he purses his lips to keep in the scorn. Ninguno de ustedes sobreviviría en el desierto, niños extranjeros. La Tierra de Orre le comería vivo. Beauty is a liability, beauty is a sorrow. Beauty just asks to be broken and fucked raw.

It is not that he likes Orre. It's impossible to like the place, unless you're rich, or crazy. But it is his, su madre de Diablo, and he understands it. The Badlands make sense to him; Kanto, in all its peace and prosperity, does not.

ii: pair bond

His partners, walking one either side of him wherever he goes, draw curious attention. There has been a brief surge of interest, recently, in walking with Pokémon, but to have two out at once is bordering on eccentric.

They draw other kinds of glances, as well; disapproving eyes note their ragged coats and bitten ears, the ribs taut under fur. Wes is always irritated by those looks. Yes, his Pokémon are not sleekly groomed and shining, like the ones los Kantosios favour, pampered pets or recreational battlers put through arcane training regimens. That does not mean they are neglected. Their leanness is muscle and sinew, they bear their battle scars with pride. They are like he is; fighters, survivors. Umbreon and Espeon have fought in real battles, battles to the death, not the clean sanitised sort of fights the Indigo League allows. They have saved his life many times, his evoluciones de Eevee, and many times he has returned the favour. He has always looked to their needs before his. How could he do otherwise?

The Badlands of Orre are a place for hate, and defiance. Love grown in their soil is a kind of defiance too, ferocious and uncompromising as a knife in the gut, terrible as blood in the heart.

Currently, he watches them sport together, bounding through the long grass, jumping on each other's backs. Playful and tender, needle-sharp teeth snap on napes, grazing love bites. Wes likes watching them like this. His partners are his lifeline in this way also; they remind him what it is to have fun.

Umbreon pounces on an unwary Rattata, breaks its neck with a practised bite. It dangles from his jaws, still twitching. He deposits it in front of Espeon, who chirrups, pleased, and lowers his head to take delicate bites from the stilling carcass. He eats quickly, neatly, leaving only the skin and bones and a few indigestible viscera, glancing up every so often to lock eyes with Umbreon. Wes is not one of those savants that can hear the thoughts of a psychic or a ghost type, but he understands Espeon's wordless speech now perfectly. Do you want me? the beast teases, flick of tail and lift of hips. Can you claim me?

Umbreon's low rumble: of course I want you, and you know it, you cocktease. You know I can claim you, and you want it, don't you-you're mine, mine, mine- Muscles tense to spring.

The response to that is laughter, unmistakably, singing like water bubbling up from a spring, flirtatious and wicked. Nothing like human, but completely recognisable. Eevees and their kin have such expressive voices. Yours? Then catch me! The sun-beast darts away, and the moon-beast pursues, and Wes turns away and lets them get lost in the tall grass.

Well, not quite lost. He can hear them still, whimpers and growls and sharp cries of pleasure. They aren't loud-they're never loud about anything-but they are close by, and the air is still. A slight smile creeps onto Wes's lips. "Bastards," he murmurs to himself. When the hot rut is done, they'll curl up together, touching and purring, grooming each other with expert tongues, and they'll stay like that till he calls to them. Lucky bastards. All that closeness and all that fun. All the care they have for each other. Tension and familiarity. He has to admit-to himself at least-that he's jealous. Just a bit.

But then again, closeness was why he left Orre.

iii: the stories they tell

Battling is a good way to make money, here. There are plenty of disgustingly fair-minded rich trainers, and they don't stint on the prize money.

After awhile he's surprised to hear talk about him, rumours on the Kanto grapevine. There's a boy with an Orre accent and an Espeon and Umbreon pair. He's good, scary good. He only fights double-what's up with that? His Pokémon, they're different-they battle like life's at stake. They nearly killed mine. They did kill my brother's friend's. (This Wes always snorted at; his partners knew how to be careful, and no trained-Pokémon lives had been lost to them since they had arrived in Kanto.) He's lean as a whip, with rattlesnake eyes. Never shows mercy or cries uncle. They say he's a thief. They say he used to be in one of the dans-Team Rocket, or Team Galactic, or something. They say he knows how to steal other Trainers' Pokémon right out of their balls. They say he's a murderer.

A little truth, a lot of hyperbole. Wes never confirms anything, but he doesn't deny it either. Having a fearsome reputation becomes him.

It does make him laugh, rather, though. He's heard of the Champions, who walk like kings and princess through the land. Lance, Red, Lyra. The one-hour champion Blue. He's a Champion too, he supposes. The Champion of Orre. Who stole all his Pokémon. But then, what else could you expect from an Orrego?

iv: prejudice

"Go back where you came from!"

Wes does not start fights-human fights-if he can help it. He does not start this one. The man is drunk just enough to be belligerent but not enough to see double or fall over. Wes had done nothing to provoke him, save order his drink. The sound of his accent was enough.

Wes does not carry a weapon. It's too dangerous for an Orrego in Kanto. But he is not rendered helpless by its lack, and he soon has the man(who is older than him, tall and heavy)lying groaning on the floor. Umbreon and Espeon snarl at him, tails lashing. They do not take kindly to threats towards their trainer. They await Wes's command.

He does not give it. He leaves, instead, with one last look behind him cold as a desert night. And then he walks out of that town, and does not return. He doesn't care to stick around and be painted the aggressor.

v: rui

He trusted her. Not easily, and not at first. But he trusted her.

Spoilt princesa, was his first opinion. Silly rich girl. The obvious first impression.

But so untrue. Her family was wealthy, yes; that was the only thing he'd got right about her.

Do you think I only see the darkness in Pokémon's hearts? she'd asked him, lips a wry curve. I see it on everyone, Wes. All the time.

No, I can't read thoughts. I mean-I can't tell what a person is planning. I just see what is inside them, around them. What motivates them. Fear. Hatred. Lust, anger, pride. Greed, often. All swirling round them like mist. They can't hide it, not from me. ¿La gente es tan sórdida, verdad? Cada uno...

Ever since I can remember.

Don't look so awkward! I'm not telling you anything you don't know, after all. Not about people. You don't have to see the darkness like I do to know it's there. I'm just saying I understand. I'm not going to run away screaming because I've belatedly realised that, oh horrors, you're a bad person.

Dark. But not so dark as you could be. I think you're trustworthy, because you treat your Pokémon well, and your darkness isn't the sort that comes from lies. And honestly, Wes-I don't think a good person would be much use, right now. If ever.

And she'd smiled at him, then, and there was such grim laughing wickedness, such belonging in those blue eyes.

Rui. Mi hermana Rui, Rui la bruja que amo. La videntesa, with luck-bead eyes, carroty pigtails and the million overlapping freckles and blotches that Badland sun gives pale-skinned girls. Standing by him always. Never shocked, never judging. Mi hermana querida. He'd never thought, never hoped to have family-human family-

But he'd left her, in the end.

He misses her still.

vi: reasons why

He misses her still.

But missing her is less terrifying than being with her. She offered him so much, and he couldn't understand it. Couldn't handle it. So he ran.

Ran to Kanto. This is becoming a pattern, he thinks. A cycle with no way out.

vii: where the heart is

The first words to come out of her mouth are, "¿Usted es un idiota, usted sabe esto? El idiota más grande en la Tierra entera de Orre."

"Rui." Her name is heavy on his tongue, three barbed letters and two syllables of pain. He nearly adds 'Marchar', but can't bring himself to.

She's taller. Stronger-looking, wiry muscle on her bones. The sun-freckles have only increased, and so have the hairline creases at the corners of her eyes, the marks carved into every child of the Badlands long before they are old. Houndoom pads at her heel, with Ursaring lumbering behind; his old Pokémon are looking well and strong. Rui always was good with beasts, even with Las Sombras, talking to them with calm warmth and suffering their rageful bites and scratches without comment. He's glad he left them with her.

Her hair is still orange as poison and tied back in careless tails; her eyes are still that vivid blue. She sits down beside him, on the bench in the pathetically kind Kanto sun, and it feels for a moment as if they have never been apart.

"Next time you decide to take off, call me," she says.

"So you don't worry?" Sarcasm, but lighter than he'd intended. This is so normal, so comfortable, as if the last three years have never happened. He fights the feeling.

"So I know where to post bail." Her smirk. Hard and soft and warm all at once-just like he remembers, only more so. He finds himself laughing out loud, the sound rusty from disuse, and it startles him.

Houndoom sniffs cautiously at Umbreon and Espeon, who return the investigation in kind, then sneezes and settles back on her haunches. Oh, it's you again. Nothing to see here, then. Ursaring peers blearily at the little cats, then apparently decides that whatever's good enough for Houndoom is good enough for him, and plonks down for a snooze.

They sit in silence, then, two humans, four Pokémon.

"Rui," her name again, and this time it comes out a little easier. "I'm scared." It's not what he meant to say. But it's what he meant.

Her hand smoothes the fur on top on Houndoom's head, traces along one horn. "Remember what you used to tell me?"

He remembers. "Los cobardes alimentan a los buitres." It's an old, old saying, and true.

She looks at him with those blue, blue eyes, fierce and vast as the Badland sky. "Wes," she says, and he thinks of the three blessed days when the rains come and every flower seed sprouts and the desert has more colours than a paintbox. "Mi hermano. Come home."

(And in that moment, he does.)