Ju5t An0th3r H3d63h06: thanks. AdorableMe: when I looked at my email this morning, I was like, "woah, woah so many, where did all these come from?" Thank you. Very much. For reading everything (waitdidyoureadallofthemIdon'twanttocheckGodthisislong) and the review.
To the people who read this story and also decided to read my other story(ies[how are you supposed to make "story" plural with parentheses]), thank you all. And thanks again to the people who are reading this (yes I know I said that like two chapters ago, whatever).
This one was supposed to be a long, stand-alone thing. I don't know what happened to it.
Okay I'll stop talking now.
In a dislocated pocket of timespace...
.-.-.-.
Your name is May Maple, and you are about to battle your longstanding rival and friend, Drew Hayden, in the final round of the last Contest of the year. Only one of you will get the ribbon, and only one of you will go to the Grand Festival.
You wonder why this had to happen with this particular person.
You enlarge your Pokéball and toss it out onto the stage, even as your opponent does the same, and when both your Pokémon are out and ready, you begin the battle.
.
.
.
You win.
.
.
.
You stand in your box of the battlefield for so long, refusing to move as they call your name over and over again, they give up on their formalities, hand you your ribbon, and escort you off the stage.
.-.-.-.
You're almost completely certain he's still in town. If there had been another Contest somewhere, he would have left to train, but seeing as there's only the Festival left, you think he'd let himself wallow in his despair.
You thought you were going to be the one who left the stage without a ribbon and all mopey and sad. You didn't prepare for this, winning. You didn't prepare for him to lose. You didn't prepare for there to only be one ribbon and only one out of you two to have a chance at the Cup.
You think you might be miserable because you won.
…How ironic.
.-.-.-.
When you find him in his room, it hits you for the first time that you've never seen him cry before. Sure, you've heard it from Solidad that his tear ducts are functional, but you've never actually seen the salty liquid burn tracks down his face. He turns so that you can see just a bit more than half of his face, having perhaps realized that you'd know what he was doing even if he tried to hide it. You're not sure why he doesn't make eye contact, though.
He doesn't sob. He doesn't make any sound at all, really. He just sits there, all hard-faced and stoic-looking, even as the tears leak out of his eyes and run down his cheeks.
He is the most pitiful thing you have ever seen in your life.
.
.
.
You cannot bear to see him like this. This is a situation that must be remedied immediately; otherwise, everything you know will collapse and rearrange themselves into a mess that you won't know how to deal with, and you think you might go completely insane if that happens.
You know that you can't give him the ribbon you won today. He wouldn't accept it, and you think it might just make things worse.
You also know that forfeiting your place in the Grand Festival would do no good.
You fear your only option is to go crazy.
.
.
.
Luckily, he speaks up.
"Did you only come into my room to stare at me?"
"…You know that that's not it." you reply, flatly. You have no intention to let him tease you even just a little bit, not when you're trying to make him feel better. You're already stressed enough as it is.
"Then wh–"
"Because I'm trying to show my sympathy. Because I don't know what to say. Because I know you're upset and probably at least somewhat angry that you're not going to participate in the Festival, and I don't know how to deal with you when you're this way." You cannot take anymore of this. You cannot stand him any longer. You give up.
You stop trying to not yell at him.
"Because I care about how you take your losses, okay? Because I don't want you to be like this, unmotivated and doing absolutely nothing except crying your eyes out! It's stupid, okay! Even I never was like this! Yeah, fine, sure, maybe I never missed my last ribbon, but that doesn't mean that you can just…just…."
You realize your mistake too late, and he looks like you've wounded him. Good job, Maple.
"I…I…" you stutter, "I'm…sorry. I didn't mean to –"
"Make me feel worse, yeah," he replies, and all of a sudden you're panicky and want to cry, too.
"I'm sorry, really, seriously, I'm terribly sorry, I didn't –"
"Yeah, okay, May. I know. It's okay. I'm fine. See, no tears." He points to his face, which is indeed dry now, and you want to lift your hand to your face, that's how ridiculous he appears when he executes the gesture.
You're still a bit shaken, though. "A-are you sure? I just –"
"I'm fine. I'll see you at the Festival."
"…You're coming?" You don't understand. Why would he –
"Yeah, of course. Gotta put pressure on you to win the Cup. 'Cause, you know, you beat me, and if you lose to other people, that'll mean they're also better than me."
You don't have a response. You are busy wondering what you feel like.
