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i miss late summer nights pulling all-nighters to finish a pokemon game. :’)

Day 4: Cooking Diaster

“Why did you call me for this again?”

Misty glares down at her Rotom Phone, like Ash can actually see her, and then rolls her eyes at herself. “Moral support,” she bites out.

He laughs, loud and jovial, wherever it is he is located in the world at the moment, and for once, she’s happy he isn’t here right now to see the disaster she’s created.

It was supposed to be stew. Brock had given her the recipe, albeit with a good bit of skepticism when she had asked for it, apparently for good reason.

The stew is solid, first of all. Hard and lumpy and absolutely the wrong color, and Misty had called Ash the moment she saw it because he always made her feel better, despite the fact he was usually the cause of her less-than-pleasant feelings in the first place.

“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” she cries, slamming Brock’s recipe card onto the counter and reading it over for the hundredth time. “I followed the directions exactly.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks like a know-it-all little punk, the smirk evident in his voice. “Because you said that about your last attempt at making stew and then you almost immediately poisoned yourself.”

“I did not almost poison myself,” she scoffs, poking the stew with a wooden spoon. It wiggles. “It just had a flavor too advanced for my underdeveloped palette.”

Ash snorts. “Sure, you just keep telling yourself that.”

Misty scowls at the phone. “Why did I think it was a good idea to call you, again?” she grumbles.

“No clue,” Ash answers honestly, and she can just hear him grinning. “You know there was no way I was going to be nice.”

“Momentary lapse in judgement.” She pokes the stew again and something bubbles and releases a little plume of steam. She gags.

“You should send me a picture,” Ash chirps, “I wanna see this thing.”

She rolls her eyes, and despite herself, she does inwardly admit that letting him make fun of her actually did make her feel better.

Damnit, she has it bad.

“Goodbye Ash,” she says simply, hanging up as he laughs loudly on the other end of the phone.

She immediately receives a picture from Ash of he and Pikachu pouting and making growlithe eyes, asking again to see the stew. What a loser.

Your plot twists will always feel predictable, because you created them.

Your stories will always feel a bit boring to you, because you read them a million times.

kenma shouldn’t have let you drag him into this.

but then again, he can’t ever deny you— if he did, the guilt would gnaw at his bones until the marrow of them splintered and gave in.

so he’s here, pressed between the wall of his bedroom and your arm, gripping his phone with a white-knuckled vengeance. on the screen, one of the otome game’s love interests returns kenma’s glare with a dazzling grin.

you giggle at something the male lead says; he’s tall, outgoing, sparkly-eyed and everything kenma isn’t but wishes he was if it meant you would look at him like that, giggle at him like that.

then, you’re slumping to rest your temple on the shoulder of his old, pilled sweater (it’s your favorite of his) and the warmth of you seeps through the thin fabric, takes root alongside his veins. kenma watches the game through the glass of your pupils, blown wide by the love interest’s saucy voicelines.

the male lead has dark, messy hair. it grins wide on the screen, intertwines its fingers with your avatar, pins them against the wall in a kabe-don. it looks a bit like kuroo.

"he's so cute," you mumble, tilting into kenma without a thought. he can smell your shampoo, and something ugly twists in his gut. "look, he's got dimples."

kenma’s resigned sigh matches your lovesick one. he rests his temple on top of yours and yearns.