Silver scoffs at the people around him as he elbows his way through the dancers in the streets of the ever-busy Johto region. It isn't the first time his disdain makes itself known in the last hour, even. At this point, his throat is genuinely starting to hurt, but he can't just stop now. His public reputation and personal pride forbid it.

To his great displeasure, today, of all days, is nothing but excess festivity. Citizens get together with friends and family to see whose songs of joy are louder. It's just one of the many long-time traditions, he knows, that surround this insipid day, but that doesn't give him too much reassurance.

Lights and fireworks go off in his face and ears, drowning him in the hectic celebration, and he hates it.

By the end of the night, he grouses to himself, I'll be sicking up confetti.

Honestly, the most interesting thing about today is that people take down their old calendars and put up new ones. That's literally it. The first of January? Wow. Exciting. It's not like there aren't eleven other first days of the month every single year. And the year after, and the next, and the next. The lack of general realization over this just proves his opinion of his fellow species, so enraptured are they by the power of suggestion.

One fool goes, "Hey, let's throw a party today," and another chirps, "Let's make it annual!" and a millennia later, there's a stranger wearing three different pairs of glasses screeching in Silver's face. Stars, what happened to heralding the end of the world? Now that's something he could see himself getting behind.

But it looks like he's alone in such thoughts, because everyone around him is having the time of their life. He knows this with a particular certainty because he glanced over his shoulder about two blocks ago and now he can't stop — he thinks he might have seen a glance of Lyra and that red-headed Dragon Master man.

Ugh. Now he really is going to be sick.

Who would have thought that bumbling, blithering wisp of a girl could have made it to the top? She had, obviously, because that's exactly what she did. Lyra Soul, Champion of Johto and heroine of legend, Master of Pretty Much Everything.

She probably is not here, he tells himself, though he isn't sure why. His chest is tight with dread at the thought of having to spend yet more time in her company. It's been months since he's seen her anywhere other than on the television in the PokéCenter lobby, so she's probably off celebrating on her mountain with all her mountainy friends. Idiots.

By this point, Silver's escaped the center of the city. He reaches a grassy meadow that soon drops off into a beachy cliff and grudgingly admits that Johto's not a shabby looking place, when there's nobody there to mar it, like now. There's no one here to blast noise-makers — who's idea was that? anything as crudely named a noise-maker is not worth his time — at him. He checks the time. Good. Just a handful of minutes left until the official time cycled over and everyone started frothing at the mouth and taking pictures of themselves at the various landmark Towers all throughout the region.

Hopefully then they will all leave afterwards, promptly and without mess, though he doubts it. At least he's found a good place to wait it out. And a nice view.

The beach is more of a shoreline, with only a few yards of sand to boast of. There are huge boulders both on the sand and in the water, which he imagines would make swimming pretty difficult after a certain point. But he doesn't really feel like trying it. Maybe later. Leaning against one of said boulders, Silver feels some ever-present tension easing out from his shoulders. Not so ever-present after all.

With the nearly full moon casting a soft glow on the lapping of waves, Silver feels a rare wash of gratitude that brought him out here. Alone.

"Silver?"

Silver silently curses out whoever heard that gratitude and decided to laugh at him. He doesn't actually know that many people, and he is liked by even fewer, so the chances of that call being from someone unsavory are might higher than–

"It is you!" It's said with delight, calmer than the party-people's, but still pleased. Huh. Well, that's not normal. He turns. The moonlight and city glow reveal little more than colors. Dark reds and blues and a bit of brown beneath a white puff.

"What are you doing out here, Champion?" he asks his long-time rival — the one who grew up fast and soundly stomped on his winning streak, not the one who still throws his Pokéballs like a sportsball player.

"I saw you in the city earlier," she says, brushing some hair out of her eyes. The motion makes him realize with stunning abruptness that she's wearing different clothes. Logically, he knows that people do have different outfits, but. Well. For some reason, it never seems important.

Her signature color scheme is duly present, though tonight in the form of a dress and, perched atop her head, a white bow. He thinks he hair is longer now, past her shoulders, no longer quite so gravity-defying.

Silver snorts at her when she gives up with the careful touches and just hooks the stray strand behind her ear.

"What?" she replies with spunk and a laugh. "It's not like I chose this thing."

"A champion without autonomy," he drawls. "Sounds more like a puppet to me."

"I'll turn you into a puppet," she threatens, but there's no heat to it. His lips twitch. He turns the spasm into a frown through pure force of will and is proud of it. "Meh. You of all people ought to know that nothing comes free. Lance and the guys seem to want me to be, you know. Dolled-up, and all. Even if I'm just looking for an old friend."

"Ah. I see. Being champion of an entire region so glorious that the holders of its laurels decided you must be charged with the immense penalty of a dress and pointy shoes."

Silver wonders when he realized she was wearing said dress and heels. And that she looks good. Real good.

"Oh, don't you knock these shoes," she scolds with a grin, but she toes them off with care. She'll probably need them later. For a moment, he entertains the notion of kicking them off the cliff, but the idea fades fast. He'd definitely be the one to go scoop them up again, no doubt about it. When he looks up again, hoping his dip of dark humor doesn't show on his face, Lyra's holding a small box in her hands.

The movement catches Silver's sharp eyes, but he doesn't comment. It's probably a little admirer's bauble. Looks like it, anyway. Small. Neat. Probably pricey. Perhaps from someone overseas. Most likely another champion to-be, hoping to curry favor. Definitely a brat. Silver decides he's ready to hate whoever it is.

"Um," Lyra says eloquently. He raises an eyebrow. Sure, he has plenty of time on his hands — not that she needs to know it — but he's not overly inclined to wait until the fireworks go off. There's not much farther he can get from the people who feel the need to explode pseudo-gunpowder three- to-five hundred feet into the air without drowning.

He's resentful, not stupid.

"Um..." Lyra's struggling for some reason, and it's funny. He has no shame in admitting that. In admitting that he uses his amusement as an excuse to check her out? Well, that's something else. So he doesn't. Nope.

It billows out lightly in the wind, pretty-like. He swallows. Must be the salt in the air.

"Hey!" Fingers snap in his face and he blinks. Lyra's got her hands on her hips, and now she's the one who looks amused. "I'm talking to you," she accuses.

"Sorry."

"Are you listening now?" she asks, talking loud and slow. He gives her a dark look, but there's not much he can say since he really did miss her words the first time. Darn it. "I...brought you something."

He blinks.

"What." Then he adds, "Repeat that." Then: "Please." It's an effort.

"What happened to listening?" she teases, but she's all flushed pink now. Shoving the box at him, she looks somewhere just over his shoulder. "Here. It's for you. Open it."

Silver takes the box slowly. Not hesitantly, because he doesn't do cautious. Wary, okay. But never afraid. Even when confronted with something unknown, like presents. Receiving presents is not something that exists in his memory, short- or long-term, and he was certainly not expecting it. Especially not from Lyra Soul.

"Thanks," he manages. That's social convention, isn't it? Another tradition, that, but he would feel weird not doing it. The box has a ribbon on it, smooth and silky. He slips the scrap into his pocket before unclasping the box and popping it open. Inside, seated in a tiny pile of cream-colored lining, sits a shiny, sparking charm thing. Strung on an indigo thread are a light blue crystal — this diamond-shaped thing with very pronounced corners — and an emeraldy bead on either side. The whole thing could hang from the tips of his fingers and just barely brush against his wrist.

"It's called a shiny charm," Lyra says. Clever. She sounds shy, which just about throws him back four or five years in an instant. "I got it when I visited the Unova region last winter."

"I like it," says Silver's body. "A lot. It's great."

The smile that lights up Lyra's face is brighter and more brilliant than any of the fireworks he's seen all night — ever.

"I've got one more thing for you," she says. The shyness is still there, but her eyes burn with something like battle-confidence, and he finds himself staring.

"I don't have anything for you," he protests. That's part of this whole gift-exchange business, too, isn't it? Thank you, horrible childhood.

"That's alright. You can give this one back if you like it."

His eyebrows furrow. "Isn't it if I don't like it? Not that I won't." Oh, he has to do damage control, now, and he doesn't need anyone else to tell him so this time. "I will, you know. Like the– thing. I like this one." He lifts the box a little bit, making sure not to drop the little charm. "And I–" He pauses, inhales. She's in his space, now. "I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything," Lyra whispers. Her eyes aren't just brown, he notices. There's hazel in them too. How hadn't he realized that before?

"No, you don't get it. You gave me something important," he insists. "I should have something for you." He doesn't bother to pat his pockets. There's not much of value there to anyone but him. Lyra coughs quietly, muttering something beneath her breath. "Hn?"

"Nothing," she shrugs, and it's very clearly something. He closes the distance between them by half.

(Ten seconds left.)

"What are you thinking about?" he asks her, because there's a feeling in his gut that's spreading up to his chest now, and he wants to chase it.

"The other gift," she answers, a small grin darting across her face. Oh. He's already forgotten.

(Four seconds.)

"What is it? I'll like it. Whatever it is."

"Anything?" It's a challenge.

(Two.)

"Anything," he says, not totally following the conversation anymore.

(One.)

"Alright," Lyra Soul breathes, and kisses him gently with her eyes closed. His eyes close too, by themselves, and it takes him a few seconds to register what's happening. While he'd like to claim that the fireworks are coming from outside his head only, not inside, too, that's a flat lie.

He kisses her back, moving in with a tilt of his head. Their noses bump, and then their hands against each other.

It's rather past midnight on New Year's Eve when he breaks it off, pulling far enough back that he can again see her eyes.

"I think," he says, tongue flicking against his lips, "I like this tradition."


happy new year's to you, no matter what month it's in! i wish you and yours love.