A/N: This is a long-awaited chapter, for more reasons than one...
Anastasia was none too pleased that they ruined her book. Luckily, only a few pages were stained with mud, and although they never returned to their normal yellow-white, the words became legible again after careful cleaning. That doesn't mean that Mott had any sort of success trying to read it, though, so he did away with the book entirely and asked Anastasia for a summary.
Most of it was pretty boring history and scholarly debates, but there was a nugget of valuable information in it all. Not just valuable—priceless. She tells them how to seal Zekrom back into the stone.
"You must physically touch the stone," she explains, gesturing as though she's holding it. Mott and Lenny both lean forward, eager to hear what she has to say. The last time they had gotten this close to such crucial information was just before the death of the curator. "Then you must take control of Zekrom and order it back into the stone. You do know how to take control of it, yes?"
They both shake their heads, entirely clueless and somewhat dazed. After fighting so hard to get this information, nearly dying in the process, sitting in Hilda's living room and drinking tea seems like an anticlimactic and bizarre way to gain the answers they've been seeking.
"Since Zekrom has been awakened, it is most likely being controlled by whoever summoned it," she states, and Mott nods in agreement. "Whoever is controlling Zekrom is essentially projecting it's desires onto the beast, causing it to go on this rampage. Zekrom derives power from the ideals and goals of whoever controls it and will continue to remain in a harmonious partnership with the summoner as long as their convictions are steadfast. Therefore, in order to seize control over Zekrom, your motivations must be stronger than whoever is already submitting Zekrom to their thrall."
The two of them are silent, slowly digesting everything they've discovered.
Finally able to fill in the missing pieces, Mott lays it all out in his mind. Basically, he needs to find this stone, touch it, and battle for control over Zekrom in order to put the beast back to sleep. That's easier said than done, considering that they have no idea where the stone is.
"Is there a certain range that the stone-wielder has to be in to maintain control of Zekrom?" He asks, hoping to narrow down the scope of their search.
She shrugs. "Unclear."
Sighing, he rubs the back of his neck. Theoretically, this person could be controlling Zekrom from halfway across the world for all they know. If the stone is as big as a house, that might make the search more manageable. But if it's unreasonably small, then Mott and Lenny have to take a fine-toothed comb over the entire globe.
That is… not ideal.
"I agree, not ideal," Anastasia says. Mott narrows his eyes at her. She clears her throat. "Right, no mind reading. My apologies. Nevertheless, I do believe that whoever is controlling Zekrom must have something to gain from all this destruction and death. Perhaps that will help you in your search."
She has a point. If the stone-wielder has to have steadfast conviction in order to maintain control of Zekrom, they can't be doing all of this on a whim. There must be something deeper to it—something that they're after. Maybe if Mott can dig more into that, he can discover who is behind all this. Finding them should lead him right to the stone, after all.
As Mott loses himself in thought, Hilda and Amari enter the room. Amari is perched on their mom's head, hanging onto a stone protrusion for security. They're yawning sleepily and rubbing their eyes, giving Mott hope that they're too tired to shout. Hilda tosses a satchel over her back and approaches her wife.
"I am taking Amari to work," she says, nuzzling Anastasia. Mott is almost surprised to see them engage in such soft domesticity. He'd kinda expected them to headbutt each other goodbye, or something. "We will be back before the festival tonight."
"Very well," Anastasia replies. "I will be with our guests discussing Zekrom."
They say their goodbyes before Hilda departs, Lenny vibrating in his seat all the while. Mott arches a brow at him, trying to figure out what his deal is, but Lenny just keeps shaking like he's about to explode. When Hilda and Amari leave, Lenny finally bursts.
"There's a festival tonight?" He blurts, beaming with excitement.
Of course. Mott snorts reflexively, amused by Lenny's overpowering enthusiasm. Anastasia turns to them, nodding. She seems entirely indifferent to Lenny's overzealous bouncing.
"Yes, it's an annual festival we hold in the town," she answers, much to Lenny's obviously increasing delight. "You two ought to join me and my family tonight."
"What's the festival about?" Mott asks, curious.
Anastasia rises, gathering their empty tea cups. "It's a celebration of all sorts of love: romantic, platonic, familial, and more. Any kind of love or devotion is celebrated and recognized tonight."
Lenny grips Mott's arm and vigorously shakes, meaning he mostly shakes himself while Mott sits perfectly still. Nearly jostling himself dizzy, Lenny cries, "Mott, let's go!"
"Uh," Mott says, intelligently, feeling heat creep into his cheeks.
"It'll be so much fun! When was the last time we went to any kind of party? Was it back in Moressley Town? I think it was. Wow, that feels like forever ago! We've been working so hard and it would be so nice to take a night to relax, don't you think? I think so. It'll be fun! We can go together with Anastasia and Hilda and Amari…"
Lenny's rambling continues on with no end in sight, energized and filled with ecstatic gestures and expressions. It doesn't take long for Mott to lose track of what he's saying, especially when he's talking so fast. But mostly, the thought of going to a festival of love with Lenny is what wiped his mind.
It's not like the thought is unappealing. In fact it's quite the opposite! The only problem is—well—it's just—
It's complicated, okay?!
Chances are, Lenny isn't even thinking of it the way Mott is. Anastasia said the festival was for all forms of love; it's not inherently romantic. Also, he mostly just seems excited to party. He probably would've jumped on any excuse to have fun.
That's all that this is about. Kicking back and having fun.
"Yeah, sure," he agrees, fighting down his blush.
Lenny chatters on about the festival for the next hour or so, pestering Anastasia with questions. If she's irritated by the onslaught, she doesn't show it. But she does eventually drift off to go rinse their tea cups, leaving Lenny to turn to Mott and continue his babbling with no pause. For a moment, Mott wonders when Lenny last took a breath between his rambling. Worrying about Lenny accidentally passing out due to over-talking at least distracts him from worrying about whatever is going on inside himself.
Why is he so worked up about this festival, anyway? It's not like he hasn't been to one before. Just because it's a festival of love doesn't mean he's going to have people fall in love with him left and right. Heck, some places celebrate festivals about the moon of all things, that doesn't mean everyone is getting a moon!
Still, for whatever reason, he feels like there's something special about this festival. Perhaps it's less about the act of the festival and more about the acknowledgement of something he's buried deep inside for a long while, now. Because if he's being honest, it's not like he hasn't thought of Lenny in a romantic sense. Who wouldn't? There's no denying that he's charming and attractive, and those are great qualities! Anyone could fall for Lenny, but Mott's just not sure that he has.
He's never felt any of that stereotypical romantic stuff for Lenny. Whenever playwrights soliloquize on love, they gush poetry of stammering breath and trembling voices. If that's love, then Mott has never had that, especially not for Lenny. His heart doesn't flutter anxiously when Lenny is near and his stomach doesn't twist itself into knots. Rather, it's the opposite.
When Lenny is near, a wave of calm washes over him. His heart settles down and the tension in his body releases. More and more, he's finding that he can talk to Lenny about anything without fear of judgement or ridicule, and he's delighted when he can offer the same solace in return. Lenny's seen him at his worst and stood beside him despite the difficult path of growth he's treaded. His loyalty and devotion are beyond anything Mott has ever experienced, and Mott will be forever grateful for it. He'll be forever grateful for him.
Lenny is a comforting, safe, and warm presence.
Lenny is home.
…Shit, that's love, isn't it?
It's not the fluttery poetry and blind romanticism. It's not the makings of sonnets and paintings. It's real. It's the kind that stands the tests of time, the weather of hardship, and the tribulations of life. It's like… old couple love.
There's a brief moment of panic injected into that discovery.
Oh no. Oh no. When did he fall in love so hard? And how? And why did he go straight to being like an old couple in love; why couldn't he have had like, a few normal years at least? Does Lenny even feel the same way?
Another moment of panic.
There's no way Lenny feels the same, right? It's weird that Mott is so entirely devoted after only knowing Lenny for about a half of a year. Yeah, that's definitely weird of him. Lenny would probably be creeped out. As previously determined, Lenny views this festival as a chance to kick back and have fun—not to suddenly find a soulmate and fall into old couple love with them. That would be a bit dramatic.
He snaps out of his thoughts when Lenny waves a hand in front of his face and asks, "Mott? Are you listening?"
Shaking himself off, he says, "Sorry, I zoned out for a moment. Say that again?"
Lenny needs no more encouragement to resume prattling on and on, and this time Mott actually pays attention. It's not easy, though, considering the mess of thoughts and emotions he has to push to the side in order to do it.
Tonight is about having fun. That's it. Mott's not going to be a jerk and ruin the festival for both of them with his weird feelings.
By the time Hilda and Amari return to the house, the sun is just starting to set and festival lanterns are flickering with life. The evening breeze is gentle and cool, carrying with it a tranquility as the night settles in. The small flames of the lanterns flicker with each whisper of wind, casting dancing shadows throughout the town. Seeing the town glowing in the night is a uniquely beautiful sight. Even with the lights, the night sky is clear and vivid, each star twinkling with diamond-like luster.
It's a perfect night for a festival, especially one celebrating such a warm and pure concept: love. Mott isn't sure he's ever been to a celebration for such an innocent cause. Most parties he's attended were flooded with the rich and corrupt who wanted to boast their illicitly earned wealth. But there's nobody like that at this party. Tonight, this party is for everyone—everyone has love, after all.
Hilda and her family lead them through the streets, showing them the sights of the city. Amari is most eager to show them everything they find cool, shouting "LOOK AT THIS" and "OVER THERE IS MY FAVORITE ROCK." Lenny takes Amari's excitable yelling in stride, matching their enthusiasm by asking a billion questions per second. There's no room between them for another word. Mott is fairly certain the two of them could power a sizable city with the energy of their chattering alone.
It's not long before Amari starts clamoring about the festival. "I CAN'T WAIT TO GET MY LANTERN!"
"Lantern?" Lenny asks, tilting his head curiously.
"YEAH! YOU'VE GOTTA BUY A LANTERN AND SEND IT INTO THE SKY AT THE END OF THE NIGHT!" Mott's ears are ringing so much he almost can't hear the next part. "YOU SEND IT OFF TO SHOW EVERYONE HOW THANKFUL YOU ARE FOR THE LOVE IN YOUR LIFE!"
"That's so cute!" Lenny cries, clapping his hands together excitedly. Walking backwards so he can face Mott, he declares, "We gotta get some."
Lenny's smile is bright, and his gait is carefree like a dancer's. With that smile trained on him, Mott can't help but smile in return.
"Sure, why not," he responds.
Swinging his arms with delight, Lenny spins back around, a slight hop to his step. He leaps and skips from stone to stone along the cobblestone street, laughing when Amari stiffly joins in. His laugh isn't one of the pretty kinds, the kinds that sound like wind chimes or music; instead, it's an infectious one. It's the type of laugh that sparks joy, bringing smiles to everyone's faces. It's a dorky half-giggle, half-snort. It's the best kind of laugh.
Mott watches Lenny and Amari jump from stone to stone, apparently playing some new made-up game with no rules. In the lanterns' glow, he looks soft: no hard edges to him, all heart and soul. When he cheers for Amari and praises their stubby-legged jumps, that pure softness overwhelms him.
It doesn't take long for Amari to find the game boring. Eventually, they stop hopping around, flailing their little arms until Hilda picks them up and sets them on her back. Lenny pats their head and tells them that they won the game. Amari beams with pride and shouts to Hilda: "DID YOU HEAR THAT?"
Mott's smile is too big for him to wince. A low laugh chuckles out of him, and he shakes his head. If she hadn't heard, she sure has now.
Hilda's family veers off to find Amari a lantern, leaving Mott and Lenny to wander on their own for a bit. Lenny watches them go for a moment before turning his attention elsewhere. He seems to be taking in the festival, gazing at the sights with wide, shining eyes. Mott can't blame him. The town has always been gorgeous in a phenomenally inventive way, but seeing the same buildings blanketed in night and decorated in love turns it into a whole new world.
It's not just the sights that are breathtaking. The sounds, the smells, the tastes—all of them are intertwined into the fabric of the festival like an artfully woven tapestry. Music pounds through the streets like a heartbeat, thrumming through the city. But what truly gives life to the festival is the endless sea of people: chattering, laughing, and singing; all these sounds and more rise above the rooftops and warm the atmosphere. The scent of freshly baked pastries wafts through the air, so mezmerizing that Mott can nearly taste the honey on them.
Mott loves this.
Lenny seems to feel the same, because his smile is only getting wider. He nods his head to the music flowing through the streets, humming clumsily along as if pretending he knows the words. His singing is not very good. Mott loves it.
Wait, hold on! Mott shakes his head as if he can rattle his thoughts out. He'd promised himself not to ruin the festival with his feelings! Not even an hour in, and his head has already wandered off. Get it together!
Before he can slip away and maybe find a mirror to give himself a pep talk with, he's stopped in his tracks by a booming, familiar shout. "Mott!"
He whips around, a huge grin on his face. "Torquil!"
The emboar himself comes lumbering down the street, a patterned poncho draped over his shoulders. He's waving a giant, meaty hand in the air, as if Mott might not be able to see the lone figure towering over every other pedestrian. Rolling his eyes with a huff of laughter, he jogs over to his old friend. When he reaches him, he slams playfully against his side in a chummy greeting. Torquil 'oof's then laughs.
"What are you doing here?" Torquil asks, throwing an arm around his neck.
"Following a Zekrom lead," he answers, nudging him in response. "You?"
Torquil spreads his arms out, gesturing to their resplendent surroundings. "Visiting my favorite place in the world!"
"You've been here before?"
"I come here all the time," he replies, taking a deep, satisfied breath. "There's nowhere in the region so beautiful. The art, the science, the people—everything here is beyond anything else I've ever seen."
It makes sense, he realizes, that Torquil would like such a place. He wonders if this is where Torquil discovered his love of painting.
He doesn't get the chance to ask before Lenny comes bounding over, waving excitedly. "Howdy there, stranger!"
Torquil scoops Lenny into a hug and spins him around, plopping him back on the ground only after squeezing the life out of him. Lenny doesn't look one bit disoriented, whereas Mott got dizzy just by watching. "You look great," Torquil says, a hint of relief in his tone. "No more bandages?"
"No more bandages," Lenny confirms with a nod. Leaning against Mott's side, he teases, "No thanks to Mott."
Mott makes a face. "What's that supposed to mean?!"
"It means you'd keep me in bandages forever if you'd had your way!"
Torquil laughs, throwing an arm around each of them. "What are the odds that we'd all be here tonight? It's rare enough to see you two, but Florian too?"
Mott perks up. "Florian's here? Why?"
Torquil shrugs. "Some family business he doesn't care to talk about. You know, the usual. But if he's in town, there's a chance he might swing by to the festival."
"I doubt it," Mott says, "he's never been the type to socialize if he doesn't need to."
"Well, if he does he does, if he doesn't he doesn't," Torquil remarks, carefree. "Now let's go get something to drink! The ale here is to die for!"
Like anything, Lenny is one thousand percent on board, racing after Torquil to the nearest bar. Mott chases after them, wondering how he got to this point in his life. Since when was he the voice of reason?
They each get a drink on Torquil, who buys a round for everyone in the bar. The mugs that are slid down in front of them are nearly bigger than Lenny's head. Mott keeps a careful eye on Lenny, because there's no way he's not a lightweight. Mott doesn't want the night to end prematurely because Lenny passed out and got a concussion.
It seems he doesn't have much to worry about. Lenny downs his drink faster than the both of them, slamming it back on the counter and laughing too loud. Mott's jaw hangs open while Torquil's eyes nearly bug out of his head.
"How—?" Torquil starts, astonished.
"You city folk are slow," Lenny taunts, a mischievous smile on his face.
Immediately, Torquil is itching to start a drinking competition, but Mott hastily shoots that idea down. He instead insists the three of them drink some water and loathes his new position as The Friend with Common Sense.
By the time they've finished up at the bar and head back out on the street, the city has grown even livelier. Traveling bands round every corner, portrait artists set up their easels, and merchants line the streets to haggle their wares. As before, lanterns glitter in the night—only this time, several people are holding lanterns of their own.
"Oh, right!" Lenny exclaims, clapping his hands together. "We gotta get a lantern!"
"You've got all night to do that," Torquil assures, learning them down the crowded street. "There's plenty of other things you gotta do, first!"
"Like…?" Mott prompts.
"Games, contests, races, battles," Torquils lists, counting them off on his fingers. "And like, a ton more. Seriously, there's no way to get bored here. If you want, I can show you—" He cuts himself off with a gasp. "Florian!"
The serperior himself is idly perusing some merchant's tables, uninterested. When he hears Torquil, he looks up casually as if he'd been waiting around for him all night. Knowing Florian, he probably had been. Festivals aren't really his scene, but they are Torquil's. If Florian wanted to meet up with Torquil, this would be a pretty good place to find him.
"Fancy seeing you two here," he says, approaching them with cool indifference. Eyeing Mott and Lenny, he remarks, "I didn't realize you two were here, as well."
"We just came in a few days ago," Lenny chirps, clapping his hands together excitedly. "Wow, it's so exciting that we're all here!"
"Yes," Florian responds, much less enthusiastically. His gaze eventually leaves Lenny and turns to Mott and Torquil. "Do your families know you are here?"
"Does yours?" Mott retorts.
Florian sniffs, furrowing his brow. But he says nothing more on the subject. "How long will you all be in town?"
"Who knows?" Torquil grins, lacing his hands behind his head in a relaxed pose. "I just come and go as I please."
"Same," Mott shrugs.
Florian scoffs. "Since when were you so careless, Mott?"
Mott grins. "Since when did you call me Mott?"
Florian flushes. "I don't. It was a mere slip of the tongue."
"Sure."
"I don't!"
"Suuuuuure."
"Before you two devolve into another argument," Torquil interrupts, laughing, "there's some fun games we should all try."
The mention of games piques Lenny's interest. And by that, Mott means that Lenny nearly bolts in the direction of the nearest game, a huge smile on his face. Mott chases after him before he can lose him in the crowd, and Torquil laughs and strolls after with a leisurely pace. Florian rolls his eyes but follows, anyway.
Hurrying after Lenny leads them all to a clearing on the beach, where dozens of games, contests, and races are set up. As Lenny bounds down the slope, eager to try everything, Mott and the others survey the scene from the top of the hill.
"I bet I can beat you guys in every game," Mott declares, smirking.
Florian scowls. "You're on."
In no time at all, the three of them are tearing down the hill, racing to get to the games first. He's pretty sure the sight of three fully-evolved pokémon charging toward them scares the living daylights out of the vendors running the games.
Oops.
Regardless, they dive into the games with such ferocity that each activity flies by before he knows it. There's hoop toss, dancing, balloon darts, dunk tanks, singing, and even juggling. Mott has no idea how the hell Florian does so good at juggling, but he handily beats them. In fact, he handily beats them in everything. Torquil clearly doesn't care, grinning widely through every game he loses. At first, Mott cares a little. He's always been a bit competitive, especially when it comes to Florian. But as the night goes on, that feeling starts to fade. Why bother struggling to win when having fun is the point?
As soon as he settles into the idea of just having fun, the fun comes a lot easier. He and Torquil lose, hilariously and thoroughly, at everything they do. And it just gets funnier every time. By the end of it they're doubling over, crying with laughter. Even Florian cracks a smile in spite of himself at their blunders.
Lenny is soon in the same boat as them, failing at nearly every activity. His own clumsiness is his worst and most hysterical enemy. The amount of times Torquil and Mott have howled at the sight of Lenny tripping himself during some contest soon becomes far too high to count. And when Hilda and her family eventually regroup with them, they join in the side-splitting screw-ups. Especially Amari, who bellows "AW MAN" every time their tubby legs slip up.
They get up to even more shenanigans throughout the night. Torquil does a drinking contest despite Mott's best efforts to stop him, and then joins a painting contest. Somehow, Drunk Torquil paints better than Sober Torquil.
Florian takes part in a battle competition and swiftly beats every opponent. He wins a stuffed heart that he quickly and secretly passes on to Amari. Amari waddles away with the plushie twice their size, triumphant.
Anastasia and Hilda participate in one of those 'how-well-do-you-know-your-partner' challenges. They leave everyone in the dust, and when they kiss at the end, Amari fake vomits for ten minutes after.
Lenny and Mott run a team relay race. Lenny dashes first and easily steals the lead, and Mott loses it just as quickly. They're awarded two honorable mention medals for their efforts.
"Congratulations on losing," Mott jokes, bowing his head to Lenny like it's some great honor.
Lenny laughs, bright and loud. Pinning Mott's medal to the handkerchief on his arm, he rests his hand over Mott's arm and smiles. "Congratulations on losing."
A delighted flush spreads throughout his whole body, trembling from head to toe.
The night continues with just as much energy as it started with. Eventually Lenny and Mott take a break from the festivities to get something to eat. A nearby stand is selling scrumptious smelling grilled berries, and when they get closer to the cart Mott's mouth nearly waters in anticipation. They devour their goodies with gusto, not even sparing a drop of juice. The taste is beyond anything Mott could ever describe, savory and sweet and smoky all at once. Lenny mimics fainting due to sheer bliss and laughs when Mott freaks out for a moment.
After their meal, Amari tugs Lenny off to play a game of hopscotch with them. It's not long after that Torquil discovers a maze, and he's eagerly dragging Mott and Florian along to wander through it.
"Remember when we used to run through flower gardens all the time?" Torquil babbles, his arms around their necks. "There's no flowers this time, but it's close enough."
The maze walls are made of hay and the paths are crowded with other festival-goers. It's nothing like the flower gardens of their childhood, adorned with white lilacs and sectioned off from the world in a fantastical bubble of their own. Those days of their childhood—those carefree days where they held nothing but blind affection for each other—they're long gone. They've hurt each other and betrayed each other and chosen their families over each other far too much to return to the innocence of those flower gardens.
And yet, here they are: attending a festival of love, holding each other close, with no walls of resentment stacked between them. They might have gained some wounds along the way, but they came back together in the end. They were friends as children because children don't know how to be anything less. But as adults, they have the choice—and they've chosen to walk the maze together again.
He thinks it might be better this way. He thinks he might like it better, too.
The summer breeze blows off the ocean, sweet and salty and cool. Yet, Mott feels impossibly warm. It could be the alcohol finally making an appearance, but he has a feeling that's not it. The warmth is all encompassing, coming from the bodies around him and spreading outward from the heart.
It takes him a little over an hour to finally understand what he's feeling: love. He loves this town. He loves this night. He loves Torquil and Florian and Hilda and Anastasia and Amari. He loves Lenny. He even loves himself.
Love. Is there anything better than love?
The scream of a firework shoots through the air, erupting into a thousand bedazzling colors. Mott turns his head toward the heavens, gazing upon the sparkling colors that light up the night sky. Hearts of red and orange and pink burst overhead, showering shimmering light downward. By the time they exit the maze, the firework show is in full swing above the lake.
Down at the end of the beach, where the waves slide up to shore, Mott spots Lenny standing alone. The flood of light shines down on him, washing him in faded colors. But when Mott looks in his eye, he sees the fireworks reflected clearly, more vivid and beautiful than the real thing. Telling Torquil and Florian he'll catch up with them later, he races down to Lenny.
When he reaches Lenny's side, Lenny looks up at him. Then, he smiles. Mott returns the gesture, settling beside him. They watch the fireworks in comfortable silence.
Mott has spent all night trying to keep his mind from wandering to thoughts about love, but as he gazes at the hearts soaring in the starry sky, he can't bring himself to want that anymore. He doesn't want to ignore his feelings. He doesn't want to ignore his love. He wants to accept it, embrace it, and express it.
What good does ignoring love do for a person, anyway? All it does is drive people further apart, like it did to him and Torquil and Florian. The thought of that happening to him and Lenny—either suffering the slow drift apart or the painful stab of bitter betrayal—it pierces his heart. It aches down to his bones.
When has he ever loved someone the way he loves Lenny? Never. And he really thought he was gonna be able to just push that aside?
Lenny leans against him. "Mott," he whispers, and Mott knows he's home.
"Yeah?"
"We oughta go get our lanterns before the end of the night."
He's right. The end of the festival is fast approaching, and that means it's almost time to send up their lanterns. What was it Amari said about the lanterns? They said it had something to do with showing everyone how thankful you are for the love in your life.
Mott is thankful. Right now, there's nothing in the world he's more thankful for. He's thankful for Torquil, who's been more right about the world than Mott ever gave him credit for, and kept giving Mott second chances after he'd hurt him. He's thankful for Florian, who can be a bastard, but can also be a silently thoughtful friend. He's thankful for Hilda—even when she terrifies him—because she's had his back whenever he's needed it. He's thankful for Anastasia and Amari, too, even though he just met them.
But most of all, he's thankful for Lenny. From the beginning of this insane quest, Lenny has been the one constant. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, he's stayed loyal and steady. He's been a smiling face on a rainy day. He's been a comforting companion when Mott can't stand himself. He's been laughter, and jokes, and singing, and clumsiness, and sewing, and flower crowns, and love, and love, and love.
Mott stands, a profound sense of contentment coursing through him. He's going to do it. When they send off their lanterns at the end of the night, Mott is going to confess his feelings. He's going to tell Lenny how thankful he is for his presence and how deep his love for him runs.
"Come on," he says, nudging Lenny with his muzzle. "Let's go get our lanterns."
Lanterns really are beautiful. There's something about a lantern on a dark, starry summer's night that can't be compared to anything else. No matter the shape, size, or color, each one has a little flickering heart inside, a small and steady flame that keeps in alight. The flame could either illuminate it with heavenly splendor or consume it in a fiery wrath. The precious balance of the fire embraced by fragile paper is a most pure form of trust.
Mott wonders if the festival deliberately chose paper lanterns as their symbol of love for that very reason.
It takes him and Lenny about a half and hour to find the perfect lanterns for themselves. Lenny's is a gentle green sphere, soft and round and delicate. Artful leaves are inked along the sides in an intricate show of beauty. Mott finds a blue, cylindrical lantern, broad and sturdy. Crashing waves circle around the lantern.
Some people have already begun to set theirs off by the time Mott and Lenny are walking back to the beach. The soft glow of the lanterns couples with the silvery glimmer of the stars and creates a work of art unlike anything Mott has ever seen. It all reflects on the glassy lake like an endless galaxy of light.
Mott leads them down to a secluded cove on the beach where they will be able to send off their lanterns in private. It's a place where barely any lanterns have floated off too, so it still retains its unblemished darkness.
He wonders what their lanterns will look like, shining together in the darkness.
When they reach the shoreline, away from the commotion of the festival, they stand shoulder to shoulder. The gentle waves lap at their feet, washing over in soft whispers before retreating into the glossy lake. Above them, a cluster of stars glimmer, the only other witnesses to this moment.
"It sure is beautiful tonight," Lenny sighs, dreamy and content.
Mott turns to look at him, soaking in the sight of a billion, diamond-like stars reflected in his eyes.
"Yes," he agrees, "it is."
Lenny meets his gaze with a smile, holding up his lantern. "Should we send them off?" Mott raises his own in response and mirrors his smile.
Together, wordlessly, they usher their lanterns upward, releasing them to the heavens. The lantern feels airy and weightless in his hands, and it easily drifts toward the sky as if it's being called home. Called home to join the rest of the stars, perhaps—but it doesn't go alone. Lenny's lantern remains alongside throughout the journey, twirling and dancing together beyond the inky and endless horizon.
Together, the lanterns float away. Together, Mott and Lenny watch in contemplative silence. Mott can only assume Lenny is taking the time to be thankful for the love surrounding him, just as Mott is—given the circumstances, he can't fathom anyone doing anything less. The night is so full of love, so saturated in it, that Mott can hardly think of anything else.
He doesn't know how he never realized his feelings for Lenny before. He doesn't know how he was so blind to it. He doesn't know how he thought he was going to keep it a secret forever. But none of that matters anymore, because he's ending that now.
He clears his throat. "Lenny?"
Lenny's eyes remain on their lanterns. "Hmm?"
Lenny's voice is soft; his eyes are softer. He watches their lanterns disappear together. Mott breathes in the sight, his heart racing, and swallows. "There's something that I want to tell you."
Those captivating eyes turn to him. "That you cheated at ring toss?"
"What? No. Why would I—?"
"I know you cheated, don't even lie."
Mott feels unreasonably defensive about the accusation. "I didn't."
"I saw you!"
"I didn't! How would a person even cheat at ring toss?"
"I don't know, you tell me."
"I didn't cheat!"
Lenny laughs, his eyes crinkling with delight as he throws his head back. Mott huffs as Lenny continues to cackle. His laughter is loud and quickly devolves into uncontrollable snorting.
"You don't gotta pout," Lenny giggles, covering his mouth. His eyes are brimming with amusement and affection. "I ain't gonna turn you in to the ring toss police, or nothing."
"They would find me not guilty," he mutters childishly before shaking off the conversation. "That's not what I wanted to talk about though. I have something important to tell you."
'Something' implies that he's only telling one thing; when in reality, it's more like a series of things. Love is not a one-time event. It transcends beyond a singular moment and comes in different forms depending on which direction in time you look. In the past, love is nearly invisible until you review each second with the clearer lens of hindsight and understand that love was hiding around every corner. In the future, love is a gift destined to grow stronger.
And in the present, love is a choice. It is not an emotion that blinds us or a madness that ruins us. Love is a deliberate, difficult, wonderful, action that says, over and over, I choose you.
Lenny blinks at him, tilting his head. "You got something you wanna tell me?"
Mott takes a deep breath before responding to his question. He doesn't want this confession to be some run-of-the-mill conversation. He wants it to be special, so that Lenny can see how much he truly cares for him. He wants it to be poetic.
He knows exactly how he's going to say it, too, as if he'd been born and raised for this very moment. He's going to start from the beginning of it all, when Lenny saved his life in more ways than one. He wants to carry them through each moment in their grand, perilous journey together and express how his love for him grew. More than anything, he wants to show Lenny just how much he loves him and wrap it all in a poetic resolution. A perfect story woven with utmost care, the individual threads specifically chosen for their intended task. By the end of it, he wants their love to be even stronger than it was before.
He starts: "When I first met you, I—"
"I love you, Mott."
Mott chokes. "I'm sorry?"
"You said you had something you wanted to tell me, but I had something to tell you, too, and I just couldn't wait," Lenny explains as Mott flounders. "So, I interrupted. Awfully rude of me, sorry. Now, onto what you were gonna say?"
Sputtering, fragmented words of confusion and distress spilling past his lips, Mott struggles to grasp a sliver of composure and coherency. "H-hold on! We can't just, just—brush over what you just said!"
"Oh, we can come back to it in a bit."
Come back to it?! "Wha—no! We have to—you love me?" He stammers, his heart pounding and his breath coming short. Beside him, Lenny is the perfect image of calm. How?! "You mean, like, love love, or just like, friend love?"
Smooth. Very poetic, Mott.
"Of course I love you as a friend," Lenny says, and Mott's heart deflates before he adds, "but I'd like to be more."
Mott stares at him. Gapes. Realizes he looks like an idiot. Snaps his mouth and stares.
"Me too; I'd like to be more!" Mott blurts, his tongue running faster than his brain. "You know, I mean, if it's cool with you. It's cool with me." He opens and closes his mouth like a fish for another moment. "I—I was trying to confess, you know!"
"Oh?"
"Oh?!" He mocks, then: "Yeah, you jerk! I had a whole speech planned! I was worrying about it all night!"
He can't believe Lenny just stole his confession! It was going to be very romantic!
Lenny beams. "That's great! Then I guess it's settled."
"Uh," he says, dumbly. His mouth hurts from hanging open so much. "Yeah, I. Uh. I guess it is."
Lenny's smile turns warm with a glimmer of mischievous delight, likely taking amusement in Mott's dumbstruck state. Without another word, he leans against Mott, resting his head on his upper arm and watching the lanterns flooding the sky. Mott, still mentally catching up, can only continue to stare.
...He doesn't feel any different.
After a little more thought, he supposes he shouldn't feel much different, after all. He's always loved Lenny. Now he just loves him in a new way.
Dropping his chin on Lenny's head, they rest against each other just as they have a thousand times before.
As they sit together on the beach, watching the lanterns drift, Mott contemplates it all. There was no poetic confession. There was no poetic spring of new emotion and fluttering hearts. And it turns out, he's not the slightest bit upset about it.
After all: true love, so often, is not very poetic at all.
By the time the lantern show is over, the two of them are trudging back to Hilda's house. The slow, sleepy drag of their limbs leave long footprints in the sand—footprints that stay close together. Even though their eyes are drooping and their movements are sluggish, smiles dance on their face.
Mott's happy. Happier than he's ever been. It boggles his mind to think that only a few months ago, all he ever wanted was to ditch Lenny and return to his father's good graces. He can hardly believe he wanted to give all this up. It makes him think of the advice Torquil has given him so many times before: do what you want; focus on joy rather than success. Back when Mott was more arrogant and self-centered, that advice sounded like a concession of failure; like the words of a second rate, clueless aristocrat. Now, he sees just how wise Torquil really is.
What even is success if you're not happy? Isn't happiness a success of its own kind?
Lenny playfully bumps his shoulder, as if he might be able to throw Mott off balance. With a tired grin, Mott returns the gesture and knocks Lenny flat on his butt.
"Hey!"
Laughing, Mott jogs ahead before Lenny can get him back. He knows it's a moot point, considering Lenny's speed, but he doesn't care. Despite his sleepiness, there's a deeper energy thrumming inside him, flowing from the heart.
When Lenny catches up with him, he doesn't bump him again. Instead, he hops on his back, wrapping his arms around his neck and letting Mott do all the walking home. He feigns like he might shake Lenny off, and Lenny grips tighter. A strangled, breathless snort escapes Mott.
On their way back to Hilda's house, they wander through the dark, empty town. Seeing the streets without the decorations and lights and commotion is a strange sight, but it's not a worse one. There's something about the silent simplicity of a town at night that fills him with bliss. It's a warm, wholesome sensation that's compounded by the feeling of Lenny leaning against his back.
Every part of him is melting with delight.
They approach the inn that they had been staying at previously, the one where Torquil and Florian are now staying. Before he passes it by, Mott gazes at the windows and wonders which one is Florian's. Probably the only one with the lights still on. That guy has never been able to stop working.
A hint of sadness threatens to creep through the cracks of his pleasant attitude. In the past, he always viewed Florian as an obstacle to overcome, or as some paragon to aspire to become. Florian always succeeded in everything; why wouldn't Mott be envious? That is, until he realized another thing Torquil was right about—Florian is sad.
Florian is sad. His life as the Callahan patriarch is devoted to ensuring the influence and reputation of the family, which hinges directly on Florian's personal successes. Where he fails, so does the family. Everyone bearing the Callahan name expects greatness from him; anything less is intolerable.
When does Florian have time to be happy? When his happiness is pushed aside in the name of material success, is he ever truly happy?
Mott stops in front of the inn, nudging Lenny. A small, sleepy whine is startled out of him.
"Len? Can you wait here for just a second?" He wonders, his voice low and soft. Lenny looks up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "I'm gonna talk to Florian for a minute."
Lenny nods, yawning. Mott helps him down so that he doesn't faceplant on the cobblestone street, nudging him over to a curb to sit and wait. Before he heads into the inn, Lenny pats the side of his face and kisses his cheek. The sheer joy that gives him could fuel him for weeks.
He slips into the inn, quiet, and nods to the concierge on duty. Moving up the stairs, he tries to think of what room would correspond with the lit window he spotted from outside. He passes a room on the corner from which muffled snoring can be heard. With a huff of amusement and a quick eye roll, he determines that room to be Torquil's.
A few doors down, a sliver of light slips under the crack of the door. Mott knocks on the door, but no one answers. He knocks again, slowly pushing the door open to find it empty. Florian's satchel is slung over a hook on the wall, though, so he knows he doesn't have the wrong room.
Where would Florian even go? Maybe to the bathroom. Maybe to wake Torquil up and tell him to shut up. His snoring is practically rocking the whole inn, after all. Whatever it is, Mott decides he can wait a few minutes for Florian to return, and if he's not back soon, he'll just leave a note so they can meet up before Florian leaves the town.
With that in mind, he sits.
And waits.
...And promptly gets bored.
He walks around the room to entertain himself. It's not all that entertaining, especially after ten loops or so. He looks out the window for a minute to see if he can spot Florian outside. Nothing. He stares at the ceiling and tries to count the little cracks in it. He gets to twenty three before he gets sick of it.
Some papers on the desk catch his eye, mostly because they're in a messy disarray. For someone who prides himself on being immaculate, his desk is atrocious. Mott goes over to it with the intent to organize it and write a quick note before he returns to Lenny and goes to sleep for the night. It's easier said than done, because there are a lot of papers. He starts with the far right corner and immediately finds something interesting.
From beneath a stack of books, he pulls out a dated newspaper clipping describing Professor Anastasia Hallowood's work. There's another one about the curator at Roselake City, whose name is apparently Adelina Birch. Both clips are only brief snippets, and the main chunk of it talks about their life in their respective hometowns, but it's still surprising to see Florian has them. Maybe he's looking into Zekrom, too? If he is, he's probably found a lot more than Mott has and just hasn't shared any of it with him, the bastard.
He shuffles through some more papers, most of them being boring letters from this family member or that ally demanding that Florian perform this or that task for them. One letter he finds is from Roselake City Museum, confirming the withdrawal of donation funds.
...What?
Florian donated to the museum and pulled his funds?
The door creaks open.
"Montgomery?" Florian starts, eyes wide. He narrows them. "What are you doing in my room?"
"I was just looking for you," he says, his mouth heavy and dry. His heart is pounding. "I wanted to talk to you."
"So you had to break in?" Florian sniffs, slithering past him and rolling his eyes. "Don't tell me you've lost all your manners out on the road."
Mott watches him. Florian doesn't seem to notice, too preoccupied rummaging through his bag. Swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes dart down to the family pendant on his neck. He focuses on the black, glittering jewel inside.
"Well? I don't have all night," Florian snips, closing his back and placing it back on the hook. Raising a characteristically haughty brow at him, he demands, "What did you need?"
The black jewel looks familiar. Sickeningly familiar. It's the inscriptions, Mott realizes, with a sense of panicked detachment.
Thunderstorms.
"Montgomery."
His eyes shoot up to Florian's. Florian watches him, a taut hesitance beginning to creep into his features. Florian's gaze becomes needle-sharp, defensive yet probing. Mott can hardly breathe.
"It's you," Mott says, trembling from head to toe. "It's you."
Florian stiffens.
For a long, drawn out moment, neither of them speak. All they do is stare at each other, tense and unblinking. Mott's not sure that either of them even breathe.
Then, with a sharp turn of his head, Florian speaks.
"What are you talking about? Of course I'm me; what did you expect when you came into my room, to find someone else? You've clearly had too much to drink tonight," he states, his tone cold and callous. He sounds nothing like himself. Mott wonders if he even knows Florian's true self to make that judgement. "Why don't you go home and rest. We'll talk in the morning."
Mott nods, numb. He takes a step back, toward the door. Florian watches him, unmoving, unblinking, coiled up tight and ready to pounce.
His heart pounds.
They watch each other.
In a flash, Mott lunches forward with his scalchop, slashing at the pendant.
Florian whips aside, narrowly dodging, but not fast enough to keep the pendant from being sliced from his neck. Mott snatches the pendant from the air, reaching out to rip the jewel from it, but he barely brushes a finger against it before Florian retaliates with a blindingly rapid strike.
Staggering back and crashing into the desk, Mott shakes his head to reorient himself. Florian is gone.
His breath halts in his throat, aching and frantic. He whips his head back and forth in a desperate search, catching a glimpse of green entirely by chance—from the ceiling. Up in the rafters, Florian looms like a gargoyle statue, glowering down at him. It reminds him of the Roselake Museum, of the killer in the rafters—the killer that struck with blindingly rapid speed.
The shadows cast up onto Florian's face in an eerie caricature of the devil.
Mott's never seen this face on his childhood friend.
"It's you," he rasps, somewhere between rage and fear and disbelief. He wants to believe it's not real. He wants to wake up and laugh at himself for having such a silly nightmare. But Florian's tail curls possessively around the pendant, the pendant holding Zekrom's stone. "It was you this whole time?"
"Didn't I tell you to stop with your suicidal quest?" Florian hisses, venom burning in his eyes. "Didn't I warn you?"
Mott's heart threatens to burst into his throat. "Sapphire City. Ada's son. Adelina Birch. You killed them all, you—" His throat constricts, sore and pinched. He can only manage a whisper: "You tried to burn Lenny to death."
"Listen, I tried to keep you out of all of it! But you kept trying to hunt Zekrom, and I couldn't let you put an end to my strongest asset. This power is the only thing keeping my family above the others; it's the only thing that can destroy other family powers and assets in an instant. I needed to do this for my family," he proclaims, fervent and manic. "So just keep in mind when you're looking for someone to blame: this all started with you."
And with that, he lunges straight for Mott's throat.
There's no hope of Mott dodging. In a blur, Florian is wound around his neck, constricting tight enough to cut his airflow. A choked gasp escapes Mott as he feverishly claws at Florian's torso. It's no good. Florian is coiled and Mott is prone, unable to gain enough advantage to throw him off. As a last resort, Mott beats his fist into the desk, knocking things to the ground. Books and paperweights thump against the floor, and one of the inn vases shatter on impact.
The commotion works like a charm. Distantly, past the blood rushing in his ears and the faint buzz of asphyxiation, he hears Torquil's snoring stop with a halt. Mott beats the desk again, knocking down more books. A grumble from the other room, followed by footsteps that grow ever closer.
Florian hears it too. His eyes widen and he scowls down at Mott. Their eyes meet and they both know Florian has enough strength to finish the job. He can squeeze hard enough to snap Mott's neck; he can end it before Torquil gets here and interferes. He could end it before Mott has a chance to expose him, and he can make up some lie about Mott trying to kill him in revenge for being cast out of his family.
It would be plausible. People would believe it. The only person that would raise a fuss would be Lenny, but when faced with Florian's pristine reputation, his words would be mocked and silenced. The case would be open and shut. Florian would get away clean.
He can tell by looking into Florian's calculating eyes that he knows everything Mott does. He knows he can get away with murder. He's always been the chessmaster, aware of every move he can take and choosing the most strategic one.
But by the time Torquil is turning the knob, Florian releases him. Mott gasps, his throat roughened and bruised. Coughing and holding his neck, he wheezes on the ground, hacking air back into his lungs.
Florian retreats back to the rafters, eyes wide. Mott has never seen him make a tactical error before.
"Woah, guys, what's going on?" Torquil exclaims, clueless to the atmosphere. He helps Mott up. Mott keeps his eyes locked on Florian's with frantic persistence, and Florian does the same with equal ferocity. "Don't tell me you're fighting again; I thought we moved past this…"
It strikes him suddenly that the pendant is gone. Florian just had it; where did it go? His eyes dart around the room in a desperate search until they land on the corner of the room—there. There, fallen in a heap on the floor, is the broken pendant. Florian must've dropped it when he was strangling him.
Just as Mott lunges for it, Florian does the same. Torquil shouts at them, grabbing him, trying to intervene—and for a heartstopping moment, Mott worries he won't make it. That Florian will reach the pendant and escape. But then there's a blur of green and Florian goes flying back.
Standing between Mott and Florian, poised and ready to strike again, is Lenny.
"What in tarnation is going on here?" Lenny demands, standing his ground.
"The pendant!" Mott cries as Florian coils upward once more. "Get the pendant!"
Florian shoots himself at Lenny, lashing out in a brutal attack. A yell of protest escapes Torquil as Lenny crashes into the wall. Racing over to Florian in an attempt to placate him, Torquil tries to get between the fight—only for Florian to thrash at him in a berserk impulse.
Torquil staggers back, holding his wounded arm. "Florian, what…?"
He doesn't deign to offer Torquil and explanation, instead dashing aside and bulletting toward the pendant. Summoning a burst of water, Mott halts him in his path temporarily while Lenny reorients himself and dives for the pendant. Florian recovers quickly, though, and slips past Mott just in time to whack Lenny aside. Lenny retaliates in a flash.
The battle swiftly morphs into a push and pull between their blinding speeds, a constant gain and loss of the upper hand. Every movement is made without hesitation and with a lightning fast pace. It's a deadly dance in which one error could lead to a devastating loss. In the middle of it all, the pendant remains untouched.
Not for long.
Mott rushes forth, reaching a hand out to grab the jewel. He feels Florian's gaze shoot to him, furious and wild, before Florian too darts for the pendant. Mott is no match for his speed; he knows the race is a lost cause. But in challenging Florian for the pendant, he distracted him just long enough for Lenny to land a dire blow, putting an end to their rapid dance of death.
Florian, struck, goes flying out the window. The sound of shattering glass rings all around them as the window bursts into shards that crash to the floor. It's so loud that Mott imagines all of the town could hear it.
After that, silence. Silence and the heavy rise and fall of their labored breath.
"What… what the hell was that?!" Torquil demands, throwing his hands in the air. He then winces at the motion, placing a hand over the cut on his shoulder. "You just threw Florian out the window, man!"
"He had the stone," Mott utters, his head still clouded by shock. Torquil makes a face at him like he's speaking absolute gibberish, so he turns to Lenny with a feverishly grave expression and repeats, "He had the stone; he had it all this time. It was him."
He watches as his explanation dawns on Lenny—first the astonishment, then the disbelief, and finally the horror.
"Uh, hello?" Torquil snaps, rubbing his arm. "Can someone explain to me what's going on?"
He doesn't know why, but the thought of explaining all this to Torquil destroys him. The thought of breaking the news to him and fighting not to see that little tepig he used to know, with the large, sad eyes—it breaks him. Especially when he'd be thinking about the squeaking snivy they both used to know.
Thankfully, Lenny explains everything. It doesn't spare his heart all that much pain. He still has to watch as the veil is brutally torn from Torquil's eyes and the gruesome truth is shoved in his face. By the end of it, Torquil's expression of agonized terror and disbelief is enough to haunt Mott for the rest of his life.
Torquil laughs. It's an unsteady, broken sound; a nervous mimicry of amusement. "You're joking. You're joking, right Mott? It's not funny, man, cut it out."
Neither Lenny nor Mott say a word. They simply share a grim glance, communicating nothing and everything. Torquil's face falls and pales.
"It's not true," he exhales, almost to himself. Then, more desperately: "It's not; it's just a misunderstanding!" Coming closer to Mott with an imploring, pleading smile, he begs, "Right? It's all just a misunderstanding. I mean, come on—it's Florian, we know him." Choking, he repeats, "It's Florian, Mott, it's just Florian!"
"He has the stone," Mott croaks, his voice raspy and rough. Torquil shakes his head, lost, muttering no to himself over and over again. Clearing his throat, he says, "Grab the pendant, I'll show you."
"Mott," Lenny pipes up. Turning to him, he startles back at Lenny's pale face. "The pendant is gone."
His heart stops.
"What do you mean it's—?"
A bellow of thunder and a vicious bolt of lightning crash down on the city in the blink of an eye. The sheer volume rattles the heavens and quakes the earth, forcing Mott to grit his teeth and cover his ears. It doesn't stop the ringing in his ears or the pounding in his head, as if the loud burst of noise shoved a storm into his skull.
It's so loud it's almost blinding.
It almost rips the breath from his lungs.
When he comes to, he's on the ground. So are Lenny and Torquil, still covering their heads. A storm is raging outside, with thunder and lighting and torrents of merciless rain. And just outside the window, Mott catches a glimpse of something that makes his stomach churn: Zekrom, thrashing just behind the surface of heavy, gray clouds, racing forward to the call of Florian and his stone.
Their final battle has begun.
