It was golden hour over the skies of Johto. Two lovers were standing with their legs tumbling over the tallest structure on their corner of the world.
The Bell Tower was a sacred place, of distant worship and devoted respect. It was off-limits for most citizens, and that is exactly why they spent their time on its grounds. A place for them to be alone, together.
If Lyra is very quiet, she could hear the wind chiming the bells on the tower softly, one at a time. She could hear the Hoothoots waking up in the forest to the north. She could hear the slow rolling of the Ecruteak workforce returning home after a grueling Thursday.
The sound she liked the most, however, was the frantic dance of graphite against paper coming from right beside her.
There were smudges of grey pencil over his fingertips and down the sides of his soft and aristocratic hands as she took them in hers, more beaten by traveling, hiking and malnourishment.
Brushing her fingers against the smoky marks, she smiled softly, memories igniting in her mind. Memories from their curling near the fire last Winter, going down back to her hometown to admire the cherry trees flowering in the Spring and practice traditional dancing in the windy Summer.
Lyra relaxed into Morty's side before she spoke, her voice low in the fading light. "What did you draw today?"
The blond stopped his hand movements on a halt and lightly moved his arm, allowing her to see his work. "Ecruteak, as always."
While he rarely ever drew anything else other than Ecruteak, Lyra must note it was not always landscapes, and none were from that up in the Bell Tower. Her boyfriend had a unique outlook to life, due to his Ghost mastery and continuous study over the occult.
Furthermore, he had a passion for the city, for its scenes and inhabitants, and would usually depict it in different and creative angles. She was always surprised and awed by his work, even if he insists on his amateur status. She might not be a connoisseur about art, but his watercolour of the Kimono Girls always made her hold her breathe. Is it not what it is all about?
Despite the usual standoffish demeanour and uncommittedly attitude, the Johto champion could hear the slight proud smile in his voice, its usual tone swapped for something softer, surer of what would come next. For all his shyness and chilly personality, he has always been clear and affettuoso on their relationship.
The brunette hummed in fond acknowledgment and allowed him to gently pull one of his hands away so that he could retrieve the old notebook he kept in his beaten, purple bag. He flipped through the aging pages until he found the right one, from his many, many studies for the landscape, and then handed it over to her.
She resisted the urge to touch the fine lines; the quick, precise sketch marks created a scene that was entirely familiar and, yet, completely new.
Morty had that gift. He could see the old and make it unfamiliar in the most beautiful, nostalgic way. He was pants at traditional Johto art, but was a master with the delicate and foreign technique of the Kalosian masters of old. He had a strong and precise wrist, that lent itself well for the kind of art that you would see at the Coumarinean galleries, paintings of temples of old.
The brunette trainer blessed the day she brought back those art supplies. After his defeat, and, most importantly, her taming of the Ho-Oh, Morty lost his lifelong purpose and befell a depression. When she took office definitively at the Indigo League, she felt responsible over her gym leaders, and the Ghost master in specific, and so she tried to help him out.
In time, they grew closer and closer together, and fell deeper and deeper in love. The titles attached to it were a mere formality, as she moved into Ecruteak and commuting into Indigo Plateau.
Nothing that the girl tried was any helpful, up until she noticed how his grey eyes lighten up at a visit to Lilycove Gallery, watching so intently at the beautiful Pokémon depicted on the canvases, and so, after her next trip to Lumiose, she brought back books and all sorts of supplies for him to try out. Two years later, none can remember who he was before art.
A smile reached her face as she observes the small sketch, amazement drawn on every contour of her skin. The artist marvelled at the reaction, adoration filling his heart and betraying his usual bravado. He could have all the talent in the world and never be able to make something nearly as beautiful.
Not that he would not try.
"It's beautiful, Morty." Lyra whispered.
"You're beautiful." Morty said, not skipping a beat.
She made to duck her head in embarrassment, but his piercing eyes caught hers own. It was comfortable there, in his gaze. He had always been her refuge from the demanding duties from the league and the press. Her boyfriend was, for her, a warm shelter from the snow and the wind.
The brunette sighed, appraisingly. "Your art deserves to be elsewhere, Morty. Somewhere where it can be on display. Saffron, Lilycove, Lumiose. Anywhere but here, hidden inside your bag."
Lyra drew closer to him, carving out a place that was flush against him. His body was often cold, but she found she liked it, she liked the refreshing feeling and the smell of incense.
Morty sighed in response, but there was no malice in it. It was fond of this moment, these talks as the sun went down and the candle died, these lingering, sweet touches that meant everything and more. It was a happy sigh, content.
He pressed a kiss to her fingers, still woven in his. "That is of no importance. I have you and my art, this is all that matters."