Oy vey, you can tell that I'm getting close to finishing this. The writing in these last few chapters has been so rushed. I'm sorry about that. It tends to happen when loss of inspiration sets in.

There will be some Lucas/Dawn lovin' in the next chapter. And it will be wonderful, I can promise you that.

Reviews and feedback are always appreciated! Your support (or criticism) is what keeps me writing!

-Silent-Protagonist

()()()

Emotions are the most perplexing of things. The universal tenure of emotions is that they happen all at once in a delicate gale, or play out individually like monologues on stage in a never-ending drama. Every feeling stood upon this rostrum, dressed in elegant outfits in corporeal forms, exuding a color that represents the taste of the imperfect, unsettled heart of the owner that sat behind the curtains, watching helplessly as each one stepped up to the spotlight and surfaced beneath their holder's skin. For Dawn, anger was a tall man embellished in crimson, and confusion was a handsome child in purple coattails. She hadn't met love yet—for though she believed that she loved Lucas, but that artist of the hour had not yet arrived. As waited patiently for its long-anticipated appearance upon her stage, Dawn had to deal with Cyrus.

But what she discovered about the man was that when his few but budding emotions arose, they did not perform in discordant or melodious strife, unlike everyone else in the world—when he felt, even just barely, Dawn saw the contradiction in Cyrus's eyes that forced them backstage, too scared to let his emotions come out of the hiding place that they'd held for so many years. Instead of letting them go, Cyrus allowed them to accumulate, falling snow around his already cold and unresponsive self. Lucas was emotionally free and was never afraid to speak his mind, and Dawn had lived her entire life with that mentality. Cyrus's grapple for "perfection" through banishing his emotions was unusual—and, Dawn knew, would someday be futile.

Somehow, Dawn found that strangely beautiful. He wasn't like others. He didn't know how to deal with the occasional feelings that tried to emerge from his barred mind, so he pushed the further and further back. Dawn knew that someday, all that endeavoring to reject the simplest of human behavior would be detrimental—Cyrus would explode, and there would be no more holding back. He wouldn't be insecure anymore. He'd break into a thousand pieces, then stand shakily in the rubble and struggle to pick them back up. It really was interesting, because he was much different now that he'd been the day Dawn was captured well over three-and-a-half months ago. Back then, she'd truly found Cyrus to be a man that prevailed over her. He'd been a figure whose authority was completely unquestionable. In those days, she was fearful of what Cyrus was capable of if she defied him.

Now, in Dawn's eyes, that the adult form, the adult decisions, and the adult desires that Cyrus had were null and void. Cyrus might have been physically matured, but she knew that deep inside, he was nothing but that fragile little boy who had appeared to her once in a dream. He looked down upon her, but Dawn only felt sorry for him. He was like every other man in the Pokemon world that had controlled an evil organization at one point or another—misguided, confused, and on the verge of collapse. He'd never had parents to hold his hand through the best and the worst of times, nor friends to substitute. Cyrus Akagi, she realized, had always been alone.

What he'd done to her was not a way of exerting his power. Perhaps that's what he'd intended at the time, but Cyrus was built from lies. All Dawn wanted was to see the man that he was beneath the false supremacy and nihilistic sense of influence. That wasn't him. That wasn't the real him at all. But Dawn still didn't know who true Cyrus was. So while she waited for her love of Lucas to become patently clear, she also waited for Cyrus.

She waited for him, and hoped that the snow around him would melt just long enough for Dawn to understand.

()()()

Before she got to see Lucas several days later, Dawn had to go to Cyrus once again. She did not want to see the man and his doleful eyes that had once been hard and inscrutable, touch his ice-cold skin or even be in his presence—ever since the day that he'd pleasured her instead of himself, Dawn found it difficult to even be in the same room as him. She felt awkward at the intimacy that they'd shared. Cyrus had been the last person that she'd wanted to see her in such a compromised position.

But she shoved her apprehension back long enough to replace those thoughts with those of Lucas—the abrasion of his lips against hers, the pure love that had poured into her, and her fingers on his wall of muscle that he'd built over the months of incarceration. Those memories did not arouse her, but they did comfort her misgivings as she walked down the hall to Cyrus's bedroom, Jupiter flanking her watchfully. Dawn wanted to drown in Lucas's grey, diamond-hued eyes, shining with joy as he'd pulled away from their brief kiss. Even now, Dawn could still taste the repugnance of cigarettes and the forced lack of hygiene on his breath, and that filled her with an impression of ownership. It was as if she finally had Lucas as her own—and the kiss had sealed an invisible contract between him.

She kept this in mind as Jupiter opened the doors to Cyrus's room and ushered her inside, whispering amends for her to be safe before closing them behind her. Lucas's face stayed imprinted on her mind, wrapping around her like a blanket. He was her safety as well as her security, for even through this strife and confusion, Lucas remained constant—a fixture in her life that would never change.

Dawn took a deep breath and glanced around the room, surprised at the calmness that filled the large walls. There were no artificial lights on in Cyrus's big but scantly furnished home; instead, a window adjacent to his closet was wide open, the white curtains billowing in the warm breeze of the springtime fervor. It was midafternoon, and the sun was high enough in the sky that one could sit nearby and read a book to it, which was exactly what the Galactic leader was doing. Perched on the end of his bed, one uniform-clad leg crossed over the other, Cyrus was buried in a sleeveless hardback novel, his profile facing the door. Dawn could not read the title from the spine from where she was standing.

The scene was one of total peace. How baffling.

Blinking once at the sound of her arrival, Cyrus looked up from his book, his stable eyes affixed on her. Momentarily, Dawn saw something enigmatic slip by in his blank expression. "There you are," Cyrus said, placing the novel face-down on his bedspread. "I was wondering when you'd be here. Come."

Moving swiftly, Dawn hurried over to the man. She wasn't as frightened of him as she once was, but the feeling of his gaze unswervingly on her still made her edgy. She stood before him, not quite sure what she was expecting, until Cyrus glanced up and patted the empty space on the sheets before him. "Sit down with your back to me," he gently ordered. Diffidently, Dawn did so, skeptical of his intentions. This was a mysterious position, and one that did not have much sexual versatility, Dawn noted.

Maybe-

"Do you have a hair tie?" Cyrus asked stoically. Dawn was shocked that he would need such a simple—and feminine!—object. Luckily, Jupiter lent her several, and she always carried them around with her in case she felt the need to tie her hair back. Reaching into the pocket of the short pink skirt that Cyrus had chosen for her so long ago, Dawn retracted a black elastic tie and handed it back to the Galactic leader.

"Thank you," Cyrus said before gathering all of Dawn's hair—not done up today and resting well below her shoulders in a straight, simple manner—and yanking his fingers through it roughly, undoing the knots and causing Dawn to yelp in pain.

"Quiet," he hissed. "Hold still and stop complaining. This won't take long." Dawn felt him deftly separate her hair into separate strands before tugging on each, and sharp pressure speared Dawn's scalp as he twisted and pulled the tendrils with skilled rapidness. Dawn recognized the familiar yanking on her scalp as the same pain that she'd suffered when her mother braided her hair as a child. She'd done it for her daughter before Dawn learned to do her hair on her own when she was nine. The wrenching was as old as it was nostalgic—and powerful as it instilled puzzlement.

… Wait. He isn't…?

"Are you braiding my hair?" Dawn queried in an amazed tone. She allowed him to jerk her head back to give him more flexibility of her hair. She didn't want him to stop. This was too staggering for her to comprehend, more so than any of the other disclosures that Cyrus had revealed over the course of their odd relationship.

"French braiding," Cyrus blandly corrected. "Didn't I tell you to hold still?"

Thrashing to reposition herself, Dawn's back shot up, perpendicular to the bed and stiff, worried that a single movement might deter him from continuing this oddly wonderful moment. Cyrus grunted and went on with his braiding, the entire situation making Dawn awkward but somewhat grateful. Why Cyrus of all people—a man, and one of his serious composure—knew how to braid was beyond her, but she bit her tongue. This was fascinating to her, so she allowed him to play with her smooth, prized hair. They sat like this for a while as Cyrus moved down the length of her dark locks, the stress upon her head lessening the further he went. He didn't make idle conversation, and Dawn wasn't inclined to start one. This peculiar yet somewhat blissful activity was in silence.

Dawn did not think about anything. Not Lucas, not her imprisonment, not even the man sitting behind her, doing her hair. Her mind went white as the prickling sensation eased her troubled nerves.

Finally, Cyrus finished his work, and Dawn heard the snapping of her hair tie as he fastened the end of the French braid. "There," he said before swallowing. "I don't have a mirror in my room. You can look over at the window and see your reflection."

Having a sense that he was lying about the mirror, but still not questioning his hesitation, Dawn turned her head toward the open glass panes to her right, and her likeness caught her off guard. The braid was perfect—every weave was in place from the crest of her hairline to the end, which fell down to the middle of her back. Tentatively, she touched the braid. It was hard and tight, just how an excellent plait should be. It was better than any girl had ever done.

Her mouth was exceptionally dry, but she spoke anyway. "I didn't know that you could… erm, do something like this."

"When I was a child, I often stayed afternoons and evenings at my grandfather's house," Cyrus told her. "My older cousins sometimes came by to visit, and only one of them was male. The others taught me how to braid their hair because they didn't trust their sisters to do it for them." Cyrus caressed Dawn's hair, mutely admiring his work. "They were worried that their siblings would take scissors to them, or spit out their gum into their curls. And, as a woman, I assume you take pride in your hair and wouldn't want anything to happen to it."

"Yes," Dawn said, still at a loss for words. "Thank you very much. This… is very nice." The following silence was lopsided, so Dawn attempted to fill the void. She pointed to the book on Cyrus's bed. "I didn't know that you read stories, either."

Cyrus picked up the novel and flipped the spine toward Dawn in a quick maneuver with his hand. "It isn't fiction," he said. "A Brief History of Time.Intellectual material."

Dawn frowned slightly. "I didn't think you… had the time to sit down and read a book." She shoved back the statement that she wanted to use—You don't think it's frivolous?

"No, I don't think it's frivolous in the least," Cyrus said, as if reading her fleeing thoughts. "Nonfiction is an outlet of intelligence and, when involving the correct topic, can be an effective counter against ignorance. I applaud those who write for the benefit and spreading of science. Now, fictional adventures about this foolish man or that lovestruck woman are certainly not my fancy." Narrowing his eyes at her, Cyrus commented, "I have the humanity to read, girl."

Dawn shrugged. "I apologize if I offended you," she said, standing from her place on the bed. Interestingly, Cyrus did not try and stop her—instead, he watched her with renewed concentration. Feeling liberated and somewhat the dominant force, Dawn made her way over to the window, Cyrus's eyes on her the entire time. The portal to the outside world mesmerized her. She hadn't seen foliage, let alone breathed outdoor air in a very long time. When she looked outside, she expected to see horizons of trees and lakes, far from the industrialized anticlimax that would have been seen from the window of the base's old location in Veilstone City. To her disappointment, she was met with the trunk of an enormous pine. The smell of sap hit her nose like a fist, tangy and enticing with its woodland charm.

"Oh," Dawn mumbled, let down at the sight. Still, it was a tree and more of the outside world that she'd seen in a while, so she was thankful. Leaning forward, she noticed the verdant shimmer of a leafy green vine snaking its way up the tree, attaching itself to the spiny bark. Dawn was amazed at the color, its natural effervescence beckoning her to reach out and touch it.

"Wow, what a beautiful plant," she said. Craning her body out as far as she could reach, she snipped of a large section of the vegetation and retreated back inside, having nearly leaned out far enough to fall several feet down. Feeling the tips of the arrow-shaped leaves, she turned around to beam at Cyrus, who was standing at this point. His vision followed her dancing fingers to the vine. Upon registering it, he scowled deeply.

Walking over to him, Dawn held the green plant out to him, her heavy braid bouncing as she went. "This is a gift for you," she said. "For the braid."

"I won't accept that," Cyrus said, "because it is poison ivy."

Dawn was astonished at this revelation. She glanced down at her hands, trying to process the structure of the plant to see if he was lying—and, in fact, he wasn't, for her palms were now blistering and red with an angry rash. Shrieking, Dawn dropped the poison ivy and began to scratch furiously. She'd never been much of an outdoorsman, but even the biggest fools knew the physical makeup of poison ivy. Immediately, she was ashamed that she played herself as such an idiot. Of course, she was itchy as well, but the embarrassment overrode the pain.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dawn cried.

"I didn't see what you were holding," Cyrus said. "Don't blame me for your own stupidity."

"May you please kiss it and make it better?" Dawn asked jokingly.

Unsurprisingly, Cyrus did not find that attempt at a humorous jab to be funny. His frown only deepened. "Of course I won't," he said. "I'll get that all over myself. The commanders would laugh."

"I was kidding," Dawn assured.

"As was I."

Before Dawn could react any further than a pensive breath at his short words, Cyrus closed the space between them with one stride of his long legs and grabbed her right, affected hand by the wrist. Acting on impulse rather than whim, Dawn tried to yank her arm away, but Cyrus's grip was as strong as vice on her. He bent over slightly, meeting his mouth with the top of her hand. Dawn inhaled loudly, the throb of her itchiness already dissipating. The Galactic leader's lips parted, and he drew two of her fingers into his mouth.

Think of Lucas. Think of Lucas.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't banish the truth that was in front of her; it was Cyrus who was kissing her hand, Cyrus who was wetting her fingers with his saliva. As much as she wanted to resist it, she felt the snow melting—this Cyrus, the one that she was seeing today, was not the man that she had known before. She strived to convince herself that this was an illusion, that this fantasy of growth was all but a myth.
She knew it wasn't. Even as Cyrus drew away and stared her black eyes down, Dawn could not speak. This was not a dream. This was reality.

Cyrus was becoming someone different.

No—he was emerging.

"Come on," he said, gesturing toward her with his finger. "Let's get some lotion to soothe the burn." Dawn saw a slow bloom of the poison rash cover the direct area around his lips. Every ion of her wanted to laugh at him, smile at the haphazard way that he scratched at his reddening chin, but she couldn't. It was like she was in the interrogation room again, endeavoring to tell the boy the words that he so desperately needed to hear.

She couldn't tell Lucas that she loved him.

Nor could she see Cyrus as the abuser that he once was.