His mother died when he was four-year-old.

Despite this obvious fact, he has still happened to see her from time to time. Well, more and more rarely should he add, but the matter of fact is that he still happens to see her, hear her sometimes. People would either tell him he's crazy or believe it simply because ghosts exist for some and don't for others, so he has only ever told his father about that. As always, Dad was a pragmatist with a perception of the world firmly grounded in reality: "No, son, sorry, but ya must have imagined things!"

And yet, every time he's sick, he sees his mother in his feverish dazes. Perhaps that's why Dad has never believed him. He's never seen Mom again, not after she left them, and he's never been sick since then (or so he thinks? He doesn't remember doing the kind of things other children with a single parent did when said parent was ill). On another hand, his father has been right to be critical of these claims: on every single time, without a single skip in this pattern ever since that fateful day, his mother has appeared before his eyes until now, Roark was ill, and most likely spending the day withering away in bed. That's a reason enough to doubt the validity of someone's impressions and recollections of events, and, well… Even if he's always wanted to believe that, he's inherited the sceptical part of his father's down-to-Earth spirit, he also believes it's a symptom he always gets.

What makes it stranger is that he finished mourning her a decade ago.

He doesn't remember having fallen asleep when he creaks an eye open in his own flat. As much as he wishes that was the sign a terrible, terrible nightmare finished, it's actually the opposite way around: his throat is still burning, his head is still aching with every pulse of his heart, moving is difficult and speaking is the biggest turn-off he's faced in his entire life (perhaps not as much as going to a funeral, sure thing, but… Ah, morbid thoughts, get out!). He can only guess someone's brought him there, considering his legs are barely responsive and feel much more like jelly trying to slip out from its container than, well, actual limbs he's supposed to use to walk himself somewhere.

He's not surprised to see his late mother's soft features float over him, brown hair floating in the air as if defying gravity, surrounded by a pastel yellow halo. He used to be astonished and find an explanation, but in his fatigue and fever-induced comatose state, finding an answer seems like a chore and he's much more open to just believe it is actually Mom's ghost guarding over him than a hallucination. Feels better too.

"Ah… I knew there was something wrong with you this morning…"

Her voice echoes and sounds far away, yet he can hear it perfectly. It doesn't hurt his ears as much as Dad's attempts at scolding him earlier today, as if transgressing the layer separating physical from spiritual.

"You must have known pulling almost all-nighters for your homework or training was going to weaken you badly… Please, my dear, don't push yourself this badly anymore…"

Mom may as well have always been his self-consciousness speaking to him in the one way where he cannot say anything back. He can't speak with the dead.

"If only I could do something about it before it was too late…"

His attention gets caught in something else. He hears noise coming from his kitchen, making him wonder if he hasn't let Geodude roam around before leaving this morning, before remembering this can't be the case. Mom's apparition vanishes as soon as it came, making him believe it could really have been his consciousness speaking to him directly instead of letting him do whatever stupid things he has chosen to do to arrive there. Maybe it's just the fever messing with his brain. Yeah… Must be the fever, that's what they always say.

(The truth is that Roark doesn't remember having been that sick before. May have been the fever on that too.)

"Ya feelin' any better?" a familiar, raspy voice asks from what he guesses is the incriminated kitchen, gently stabbing at his headache. Yeah… The almost-all-nighters weren't a good idea, but he's only just realizing at which extent that goes.

Visuals soon accompany the voice as his father came into view, dressed in stuff he didn't even remember having ever owned (that's a lot of things he's not remembering today, crap). He's not sure whether or not he's hallucinating seeing Byron, the iron-headed Leader of Canalave and former foreman, dressed in an pink frilly apron (to be fair, if he's not wrong, he got it after losing a bet with friends in high school), but he knows this is amusing to behold. A shame his cough forbids him from laughing out loud. Instead, he just tries to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows.

"Gee, you still sound terrible son. That ain't an issue though, cuz your dad's made ya somethin' against that!"

He's… not sure if he wants that "something", since he knows his father's cuisine has never been… the greatest, to put it that way. With all due respect, of course…

"Ah, huh… Thanks Dad…"

Even after clearing his throat, his voice sounds dishonestly low and hurts to get out of there. Having always been fairly effeminate from head to toes, naturally high-pitched voice included, he's simply not used to sounding "like a man", like his own father would have genes worked otherwise and would have he not inherited most of his mother's traits. Not that he minds now, but younger… that was a whole other can of worms.

It's unusual for him to be home this early to the point he thinks what Dad has prepared for him is supposed to serve as brunch. Usually, he'd leave his place at around six or seven in the morning to spend some time training his team members and come back once Gym and mine duties were all cleared, as in around seven to nine in the evening. Long days of work, obviously, but he usually felt fine after a night of sleep. Well, that, and the fact he tries to slip in some schoolwork from time to time at work, just so he doesn't fall too behind on studying archaeology…

And where did all that effort and scheduling bring him? Here. In the most embarrassing and vulnerable spot he's ever found himself in as far as he can get reminded about.

Still blurry-eyed from not having his glasses on (he's squinting real hard at his father right now), he watches as best as he can the other man in the flat pull up a chair and sit down next to the bed. Would he have not known better, would he have not recognized the colour of his walls, he may have thought he was back in the family's original house, to which Byron still hangs on as a memory despite neither of them having set foot in there since the former moved to Canalave a year ago.

Honestly, Roark still avoids looking at it when he goes to work or to the Gym. That's the part of him who's never finished fully accepting his mother was dead, that part of him who still sees his father crying for days after the faithful minute where he vaguely heard a blur-faced doctor tell Dad in a hushed voice "our deepest apologies, she won't make it". That house brings back more negative memories than positives now that he's moved on, well, pretends to have moved on entirely for his and his dad's sakes. Life goes on: that's what Mom told him the last time he saw her alive.

"Ya searchin' for these?"

An unclear hand puts his trusty pair right in front of him, which he picks with a feeble and trembling hand, finally clearing his view as his second elbow gives in and he falls back on his pillow. It smells like laundry and it's strangely dry: he could have sworn it was wetter than that this morning… which was had been a hint in itself all along, hadn't it.

"Ah, yeah… Thanks…"

"I'm not very talkative today," huh? Perhaps should have added that he's usually not very chatty like his parents are or were. He's the kind to give silent signs unless the situation calls for it, even if he doesn't mind having a conversation with the miners or the trainers. In all truth, he just like having alone time where his companions just train with each other while he observes, silently.

Or maybe he's just sick and he doesn't like to have people fret over him. He doesn't understand himself very much today, he doubts anyone else who isn't stuck with his mind would get anything out of his boggled nerves drowning in their sweat.

Dad crosses his arms before putting on his forehead some kind of wet fabric. Doesn't matter what it is, just feels good. He should stop asking himself so many questions when he has no idea how to answer to them or even find that answer to begin with. He scratches the back of his head, fingers brushing against spiky hair. They really don't look like each other, when he stares at his own parent like that and doesn't find anything in him that he'd find in himself…

"Seriously, kid, ya scared the shit outta me… Scratch that, ya scared the shit outta everyone around, even Joy wasn't sure how to tell me about that. I've got a ton of things I'd like to tell ya about, but it'd go through your head and pass right through, so instead, I'll just… be a dad or somethin'. Been a while since I've had to do that."

An apology burns his tongue, but he keeps it in because otherwise his throat is going to set itself on fire.

"I know that look on ya face as if I made ya. Ya about to tell me ya's sorry for what happened and troublin' me from my day of work again as if my own son didn't matter to me more than giving out a badge to some ambitious fellas. Stop questionin' yourself all the time and talk ya feelings out more if ya need it."

Before he can even find something to respond back, Dad hands him a mug.

"Be careful, it's hot. Just don't drop it onto ya lap, 'kay? Would hate to clean it!"

Heh. That's kinda funny. Typical dad humour, he supposes.

As a precaution measure, Roark looks into the mug, unsure of the nature of the liquid inside. Again, he lived with his father for long enough to know his subpar skills in the cooking department, so he cannot be at least a bit suspicious of these contents. He feels dumb (and cruel) about himself when he realizes, as if struck with the arrow of realizations, that it's probably just hot milk, a classic brew he's definitely had no negative experience with before today, so he should be all good with it.

"Don't look at it as if I just served ya a cup of Seviper poison! Geez, kids these days, I swear…"

"S-sorry, just that…"

Dad snickers upon hearing that. "Know what ya going to say. Don't. I'm aware of that already. It's the one thing I can make properly without burning down ya entire place."

Sweeter memories surface in his mind. Candid childhood times where he'd have to spend the day away in bed, splashing around like a Magikarp on land, and where his dad would try to see him as often as possible despite his obligations. The older he got, the less time they'd see each other; but it was fine, all fine, because he was a mature boy and he knew adults were always busy. He'd be a little envious of him, for sure: he'd have loved to be able to go outside, do things, see his friends, discover new things. Spending a day in bed, indoors, sucked and he could have thought of a thousand better things than having to take a free day of rest.

Eighteen-year-old Roark stuck in bed would have liked to have a discussion with his younger self on that topic for sure.

Sure enough, the contents of the cup aren't toxic, or even tasting like death itself had graced his taste buds. It's weird to see himself in this situation again, when he swore, a couple months ago, he'd be able to manage everything and himself all at once with no issue. Maybe that was why Dad was so pissed at him earlier: he's always been taught not to break promises and not make ones that he can't keep. Had he been too overconfident, back there? Maybe.

"Huh, Dad, can I ask you something…?" He coughs again, even despite the warmth of the beverage calming down the pain. It's gone from having glass paper vocal cords to having sore and worn-out ones, which is still an improvement despite the poorness of the description and what it entails for him.

"Don't make it too philosophical, we both ain't here for that."

"Why did… I scare everyone out, exactly?"

"Huh…"

The sceptical look on his father's face has never been reassuring, but this time around, he's scared he's asked the one question too much.

"I… I mean… Yeah, I've got why I upset you and all the others… But scared…?"

"Ya really are confused about that ain't cha?"

"…Kind of."

Even as his son, Roark can't deny he's always seen his father partially as Byron of Oreburgh, then of Canalave, the tough foreman who never hesitates to act upon his words and fix situations with his own two fists and loud mouth. That's maybe why he's always been so reluctant to ask him about anything beyond Pokémon-related matters and common interests, never taking on the role of a potential teacher seriously: if they but head, he never tries to take the full initiative. Today is no exception: even if the question has already dripped from his own mind, the puddle terrifies him from what it could soon reflect.

"Not gonna lie to ya, I'm not one-hundred-percent sure why the others got scared, ain't in their minds. They probably got afraid ya got crushed under a rock or could have would ya have landed on the wrong spot, or gotten a concussion by hittin' ya head on a rock, anythin' really. Ya always get scared for people ya care about, but I'm not teachin' ya anything here."

Known information, as stated. Growing around some of the miners who are currently still working there and having visited Dad at work a few times before helps him explain to himself this is normal and that, yeah, people still work for their workmates because he does care for his fellow miners too (why would he be so keen on enforcing security norms otherwise?).

"I'm surprised ya really have no idea why I got so scared. Hell, how did you ya notice that? I was terrified for ya! (His father clenches his fists). Not to be sentimental or anythin', ain't there for that either, but it reminded me of your mom and, huh… Can't say I wanna remember that. Don't think I need to refresh ya on what happened to her all these years ago."

He sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Forget it, we'll talk about that once ya're actually operational. Get some rest first, call me if ya need anything, I'll be around."

The son watches the father walk away from the chair in frustration, still haunted by confusions and plagued by questions, but his throbbing headache punching his temples tell him to postpone that to later. For now, he should just slip into his bed, hide away from the world in his blankets like a child and, for a moment, forget about the world around him that never stops.

Maybe the time never comes to a halt for the collective, but as far as he's concerned, he's going to consider today's an exception.