the dumps

It’s freeing, even if in a bitter way. For all that Steven thought being Champion was a hindrance to his lithological hobbies, well … He ends up deciding — against his better judgement — that he should be bothered to help with the near-end-of-the-world relief efforts.

“I should’ve known you were going to miss this,” Wallace says, and his smirk is wide and cheeky.

May stifles her laughter, edging the microphone away at the last second. At her side, Glacia’s nostrils flare, and Steven excuses himself from the table before her temper cracks.

Flannery finds him by the drinks, looking flushed and awkward. She was never very good at interviews, and less so at press conferences. Steven offers a smile first, and a chair later.

“Honestly,” Flannery says, once she’s calmed down, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s just not the same without you around, you know?”

He knows. He also knows she means it professionally, that the tip in the League’s balance has yet to even out. Still, his neck grows warm, and his smile widens without him asking.

But the end of winter is still family and Littleroot, cinnamon spices and pine trees. And Brendan.

“I guess I’m someone, now,” Brendan tells her, when dinner gives way to red wine and red wine gives way to warm comfort.

“You were always someone to me,” May says, because it’s easy to, even if the weight it carries will embarrass her later.

Brendan has not followed in his father’s scientific footsteps as much as he has overtaken his stride and left him in the dust. The heat of his ambition will swallow him whole, and, years later, Brendan is finally burning. She wonders if there’ll be anything left.

“You should - you should come with me, when I hit the road again,” she adds, unwilling to sit in silence, and it’s a testament to her feelings that an invitation is the first thing she thinks of. “You can still publish your research, and - there are so many things I’d like to show you.”

Brendan’s smile is half-grimace. He downs his wine in two large gulps, and flicks his tongue at the corner of his mouth when he’s done.

Falkner knows a bit of living up to familial expectations. Maybe this is why he leans into the space between them, poking the beast’s belly. This moment will break them or make them. Because if Janine is anything like her father, this will be the moment that will justify her disdain for her fellow gym leaders.

Falkner knows about points of no return, too. Some birds fail their first flight, but falling is better than to never try at all. Isn’t it?

“What do you think, so far?” he asks, and his back is straight even as he leans to the side, and his enunciation is clear.

Janine’s eyes fall on his hands first, then on his torso, drawing out layers to find out blades. Finally, when she finds nothing, her gaze settles on his.

“It’s what I expected,” she murmurs, barely a breath, and it’s not an answer in any way. But it is still more than he would’ve gotten from her father.

Her red hair slides over her shoulder as she twists and turns her head to read the titles, a blood-color that shines warm even under the cool library lights. Her eyes catch his just as she crooks her fingers against the spine of a book, letting it fall into her hand, and her smile is soft.

Kristoph has seen that empty-eyed smile in the mirror. Despite himself, something cool runs up his back, and settles in the goosebumps smattering his arms. He trudges on, though, and replies with one of his.

Her eyes widen the same fraction as her smile, suddenly genuine. She walks, fast-paced, and takes the seat in front of him. The rest of the library is empty.

“I was wondering,” she whispers, closing her shawl around her petite shoulders, “are you a law student, by any chance?”

Kristoph should say no. Kristoph should recognize the signs he has been given.

Jirou doesn’t plan on staring, not really, but it’s hard not to feel a little jealous at all that uncovered space. So, yeah, she stares, and of course Yaoyorozu looks up from her computer when she notices. Her her smile is soft, a little shy. An unverbalized question.

“Oh, um,” Jirou manages, face warm, “sorry, it’s just—how do you do it?”

She looks at her own desk, buried under manila folders and fluorescent post-it notes. Deadlines scream at her like guitar screeches, a hellish performance with no end in sight.

Yaoyorozu shrugs, and fixes a stray strand of hair, pushes it past her ear. Even her bun is tidy. Jirou tries to remember if she brushed her hair today.

“I guess I’m just good at keeping things organized,” Yaoyorozu offers, and shrugs again. Her cheeks are a little pink as she leans in, and her smile wobbles. “I’d much prefer being able to stand my ground against our boss,” she adds, in a lower tone. “The way you always do.”