#kabu

The night pressed against the wide, frosted windows of Hotel Z, moonlight pooling on the carpet in cool, pale sheets, the city’s distant neon humming faintly behind thick curtains. Your room was a rough nest of blankets and pillows on the floor, a makeshift den built not for comfort, but for presence. Arcanine, your first partner, your friend before you could call yourself a trainer, sprawled across the nest with a regal heaviness that seemed to weigh more than his immense, striped body.

His coat, once a banner of wild orange and cream, now dulled at the edges, his luxurious mane tangled from restless shifting. The black stripes along his flank rose and fell with each shallow, uneven breath, his belly gaunt where it used to be strong and full. Every so often, a tremor passed through him—a shudder, a ripple through muscle and fluff—and he would pant, tongue lolling, chest expanding with effort. The sound was soft, but it carved through the silence all the same, a gentle keening of distress.

You lay beside him, knees tucked toward your chest, fingers buried in the thick fur at his ruff. The scent of him clung to your skin. His head rested near your lap, heavy and warm, but his eyes flickered restlessly, never quite meeting yours for long. Sometimes he tried to rise, driven by some urge he couldn’t explain, but each time he faltered, lowering himself again with a grunt, frustration in the set of those diamond-shaped ears.

A folded towel, stained from the last episode, lay discarded by the bathroom door. You’d cleaned up twice tonight already—the last time, he hadn’t made a sound, only turned away from the bowl of water you’d rationed, retched quietly, and looked at you with a flicker of apology in his amber eyes. There was always apology in those eyes, you realized. Even now, as he suffered, he was apologizing for the mess, for the worry, for the weight of your grief.

Your hand skimmed the long fur behind his ear, tracing the familiar curve, the warmth beneath his skin. You murmured to him—soft things, nonsense syllables, the kind of words you’d used when he was a Growlithe, when he’d crawled into your bed in the dead of night, seeking the warmth and comfort of a packmate. “It’s okay, big guy,” you whispered, voice raw. He huffed, a deep, rattling exhale, eyelids drooping.

He was trying to be brave for you. That was Arcanine’s way. Stoic, proud, and unwilling to show weakness. Even now, as the cancer gnawed at him, he refused to whimper, refusing to show you the depth of his pain. But you could see it in the way he no longer watched the door, no longer perked his ears at the distant sounds of passing trainers and their Pokémon. The playful spark was gone from his gaze, replaced by a tired dignity.

You pressed your forehead to his mane, the fur scratchy and familiar. Your tears, when they came, vanished into the thick ruff, swallowed up by the warmth and the years you’d shared. “I wish I could do more,” you managed, voice muffled in his coat. “I’m so sorry.”

You started to accept it, in the hush between his breaths and the rhythm of your own, that you were losing him. Over the past week you’d clung to your routine of comfort care: coaxing him to eat with rich broths, pureed berries, bits of poffins, and every supplement the Audino at the Pokémon Center recommended. You’d measured out water in trembling hands, desperate to keep him hydrated without making him sicker. Hope had been a stubborn, flickering thing, lighting up with every mouthful he managed to get down, every time he’d manage the small ounces of food you’d offer, every moment he seemed like himself.

But today—tonight—something fundamental had changed. He’d turned away from everything you offered, nose barely twitching at the smell of his favorite foods. He tanked the water, too much, too quickly, and you’d watched, helpless, as it came right back up. His eyes, usually so keen and aware, were distant, fixed on nothing, as if staring into a place you couldn’t follow. Even getting him to move was difficult, his body becoming stiff and wobbly, like he didn’t know how to move it. 

You remembered the promise you’d made to yourself the day Nurse Joy gave you the diagnosis. When Arcanine told you, in his own way, that he was ready, you would listen. No matter how much it hurt, you would honor that final act of trust. Looking at him now, his proud head laid low and his body restless with discomfort, you knew he was asking you to let him go. It wasn’t a question anymore. He’d given you his strength for years, stood with you through storm and sunlight. You could not ask him for more.

Still, the ache in your chest threatened to swallow you. The knowledge of what you had to do, what you owed him, pressed down on you like heavy winter air. It didn’t matter that you’d prepared yourself, or that you’d repeated the promise in your head all week. Nothing could make it easier. 

You reached out, fingers trembling, and stroked the fur along his jaw. “I hear you, buddy,” you whispered, voice breaking in the dark. “I promise.”

You lay there, grief and love tangled together, holding him as the night inched by, wishing that doing the right thing didn’t feel so much like breaking your own heart.

Urbain

The halls of the Lumiose Pokémon Center were quiet in the early morning, the city’s buzz just a distant murmur outside the glass doors. You walked alongside Arcanine, his massive head brushing your hip as you guided him slowly down the corridor. Urbain was a steady presence at your other side—his tousled hair still damp from a rushed shower, blue eyes uncharacteristically serious. He kept one hand on Arcanine’s shoulder, the other hovering near your back, unsure whether to steady you or himself.

Arcanine’s steps were slow, heavy. His fluffy tail, once a proud banner, now barely swayed, and you could feel Urbain’s gaze flicker with concern every time Arcanine stumbled.

Nurse Joy waited for you in a private room at the back of the Center, her pink hair haloed by the sterile overhead lights. Audino stood beside her, ears perked, feelers already unfurling in gentle anticipation. The room was small and quiet, the curtains drawn shut. A sanctuary for heartbreak.

Joy greeted you with a softness that went beyond words. “Take all the time you need,” she said, her voice warm and steady. She explained the process, her tone gentle but honest, as she set up the supplies on a rolling tray: first, the soft blue catheter, then two syringes—one milky white, and the other a translucent pink. “He’ll fall asleep first. You can stay with him the whole time.” Audino padded over, brushing her feelers along Arcanine’s chest, gauging his heartbeat, her eyes bright with empathy.

You knelt in front of Arcanine, cradling his massive head in your lap. He sighed, a sound like wind through dry grass, and pressed his nose to your palm. Urbain crouched beside you, his knee bumping yours. He reached out, clumsy but determined, and stroked Arcanine’s mane, fingers lost in the dense cream fur. “Hey, big guy,” he murmured, voice cracking at the edges, “you’re a legend, y’know that?”

Nurse Joy worked with practiced care, sliding the catheter into Arcanine’s vein. He didn’t flinch, just panted softly, eyes searching your face. Urbain squeezed your shoulder, the pressure grounding you, holding you steady as the world tilted.

The first injection was administered. Arcanine’s eyelids drooped as his head slowly dropped to lay on the floor, his breathing slowing, each exhale softer than the last. You whispered to him, voice trembling, telling him everything you’d said the night before: how proud you were, how much he meant to you, how he’d always be your champion. Urbain ducked his head, pressing his forehead to Arcanine’s flank, silent tears shining on his lashes.

Joy waited a moment, then looked to you for a nod. You gave it, barely managing to keep your hand steady on Arcanine’s chest. The final injection slipped into the line. Arcanine’s breaths grew shallow, each one fainter than the last, until finally, Audino’s feelers stilled, her eyes closing in gentle confirmation.

“He’s gone. I'm so sorry for your loss,” Nurse Joy said, quiet, reverent. “Please take all the time you need. If you need anything, we'll be right outside.” She and Audino slipped from the room, leaving you in the hush that followed. 

Silence filled the room.

You pressed your face into Arcanine’s ruff. Urbain wrapped both arms around your shoulders, pulling you against him, his warmth and the faint scent of his cologne grounding you. He didn’t say anything at first, just held you, one hand firm and comforting between your shoulder blades. His breaths were ragged, catching in his throat, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper meant only for you and Arcanine. “He was the best, babe. The absolute best. I’m… I’m so fucking sorry.”

You let the tears come, shuddering sobs wracking your chest. Urbain rocked you gently, his grip never faltering, letting you crumple into him as the grief rolled through. After a time, you fumbled for your belt and released Sylveon’s Pokéball, the familiar flash of light spilling across the blankets.

Sylveon emerged from her Pokéball in a glimmer of pastel light, landing with a delicate grace just at your knees. For a moment, she blinked in the hush, wide blue eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to the blanket-draped shape of Arcanine. Her ears gave a hesitant twitch, confusion and worry mingling in her gaze.

She padded closer, careful and silent, her pink-tipped paws barely disturbing the soft folds of the blanket. She paused at Arcanine’s side, nose quivering as she leaned in to sniff his mane. Her ribbon-like feelers unfurled, cautious, reaching out to brush his muzzle, then his chest, searching for the familiar thrum of warmth and living breath. For an instant, she waited, as if expecting some sleepy greeting, some playful huff or a nudge from his great head. Nothing came. The air was still, too still.

Her feelers lingered against Arcanine’s fur, then slowly drew back. Her head bowed, ears folding back as she pressed her nose to his shoulder, a brief, silent farewell. She looked from Arcanine to you and gave a sad cry. She padded closer, pressing her soft side against your leg, and lifted her ribbon-like feelers to twine delicately around your wrists.

Her touch was cool, soothing, a balm against the ache in your chest. She hummed, a soft, trilling sound, and you felt her calming aura wrap around you, gentle and insistent. Sylveon leaned in, nuzzling your cheek, her feelers tightening just a little, anchoring you to the here and now. 

Urbain watched her, eyes rimmed red, and reached out to stroke her back. “You two took care of each other for so long,” he said, voice hoarse. “He’d want you to stick together now.”

You nodded, squeezing Sylveon’s feelers, the grief still raw but softened by the warmth around you. Urbain shifted, pressing a kiss to your temple, his presence solid and unyielding. “You did right by him. All the way,” he murmured, threading his fingers through yours, letting you lean as hard as you needed.

In the quiet, with Sylveon pressed to your side and Urbain’s arms around you, you let yourself grieve openly, fiercely, and messily, knowing you weren’t alone.

Corbeau

The penthouse was silent but for the faint, distant hum of Lumiose City far below, a city that seemed impossibly removed from the hush filling these high, shadowed rooms. Near the window, the city’s lights flickered across Corbeau’s glass coffee table, casting fractured patterns onto the deep purple carpet. You sat on the floor beside Arcanine, cradling his head in your lap, your palm pressed to the softness of his mane. He panted in slow, shallow breaths, eyes shining with a tired dignity, his massive body sprawled across a thick blanket that Corbeau had spread for him.

Corbeau moved quietly through the room, his footsteps muffled by the runner. He wore his habitual black suit, purple shirt pressed and immaculate even at this hour, his tie knotted with patient precision. He hovered at a respectful distance, the severe lines of his face softened in the lamplight. He’d never grown close to Arcanine. Your partner had always watched him with a possessive, wary gaze, a guardian suspicious of anyone who came too near. But Corbeau had always met that scrutiny with a calm, wordless respect, and now, he kept his composure as you wept into Arcanine’s fur.

Nurse Joy arrived in the company of Audino, her presence quiet, efficient, and gently commanding. She set her medical bag on the glass table and explained the process in a steady voice, her pink hair pulled back beneath her Kalos cap. “We’ll sedate him first." Audino came to kneel, her round eyes luminous, feelers gentle as she checked Arcanine’s pulse and breathing with practiced care.

Corbeau stood by your shoulder, one hand clasped behind his back. His other hand hovered at his side, fingers flexing and curling, betraying a tension he otherwise concealed. He watched, face inscrutable, as Nurse Joy slipped the catheter gently into Arcanine’s foreleg. You whispered to your partner soft, broken promises and memories of endless roads, of sun and rain and firelit camps. Arcanine’s eyes met yours, bright with trust, and you stroked his mane as the sedative slid into his vein. His breathing slowed as his head slowly lowered to the ground, and then he was quiet. 

When Nurse Joy looked to you for permission, your nod was barely more than a tremor. The final injection followed, Audino’s feelers pressed to Arcanine’s broad chest, tracking the last, faint rhythm. The room seemed to shrink and expand with the silence that followed. Audino removed her feelers and gave a solemn nod, and Nurse Joy confirmed, her voice subdued: “He’s at peace now. I am so sorry for your loss. Please, take as much time as you need.” She and Audino excused themselves, closing the doors to the suite with a sigh. 

Corbeau knelt beside you, the expensive material of his suit brushing your arm. He did not touch you at first, but his presence was an anchor. He gazed at Arcanine, lips pressed thin, and drew a slow breath, as if steadying himself against the weight of your pain.

You pressed your face into Arcanine’s ruff, your shoulders shaking. Corbeau’s hand hovered in the air before gently settling on your back, warm and sure. “He was magnificent,” he murmured, voice low, controlled, but edged with something raw. “He protected you well and deserves every honor.”

You let yourself sob, clutching Arcanine’s mane, already colder than it was, until your knuckles ached. Corbeau stayed, silent as stone, but when your breaths finally faltered, you glanced up to see a faint sheen in his usually implacable eyes. He reached for your hand, fingers cool and steady, and pressed your trembling knuckles to his lips for a moment in a rare, private gesture.

When at last you nodded, ready for Arcanine to be taken away, Corbeau rose. “Wait here,” he said gently. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a delicate porcelain cup. The tea within steamed softly, scented with honey and something faintly floral—his Roserade’s own calming blend. He knelt beside you once more, offering the cup in both hands. “Drink,” he instructed, voice soft but firm, “it will help you rest. You don’t need be awake for the rest of this.”

The tea was sweet, the warmth curling through your chest, heavy on your tongue. Sleepy numbness began to unfurl in your limbs as Corbeau gently coaxed you to stand, one arm strong around your waist. “Come on,” he whispered, guiding you toward the bedroom. His suit jacket slid from his shoulders as he tucked you into the wide, dark sheets, his movements precise and careful. He smoothed your hair from your brow, then bent to press a soft, unhurried kiss to your temple, his hand lingering at your cheek. “I will see to everything, and make sure he’s well taken care of.”

As the tea’s haze thickened, you watched him move with silent efficiency, black and purple melting into the shadows as he returned to the living room.

There, Philippe waited, broad-shouldered, his suit straining over his massive frame, his silver eyes gentle as he nodded in greeting. Around him, a few trusted Syndicate members lingered, silent and respectful, ready to assist Nurse Joy in moving Arcanine’s body.

Philippe’s deep voice rumbled, pitched low. “How is she?”

Corbeau slipped his glasses back on, schooling his expression into quiet command. “As well as any other person who just had to say goodbye to their pokemon. I’ll be working from home for the rest of the week. No interruptions unless it’s urgent business.” He glanced toward Arcanine’s still form, then back at Philippe, his voice softening. “Make sure Joy gets a clay imprint of his paw, and a clipping of his tail fur. Handle him with care—he is not just anyone’s Pokémon.”

Philippe dipped his head in deference. “Of course, boss. We’ll see to it personally.”

Corbeau’s gaze lingered on the bedroom door, tension written in the set of his jaw. “Let no one disturb us. Not for anything less than necessity.” He straightened his tie, steeling himself, and watched as Nurse Joy and Philippe moved quietly, reverently, to begin their work—each gesture marked by a respect that went well beyond obligation.

As the penthouse filled with the gentle sounds of movement and whispered instructions, Corbeau remained a sentinel in the dim, his presence both shield and sword, resolved to carry your sorrow until you could bear it yourself.

Philippe

The day at Rust Syndicate headquarters had been long, the kind of day that dragged its feet through the hours, weighed down by paperwork, field reports, and the low, metallic thrum of city life filtering through the headquarters’ thick windows. As the sun dipped behind the skyline and the office lights cast a pale gleam across Corbeau’s desk, Philippe stood at attention, his wide frame in sharp contrast to the severe lines of the room.

Corbeau, seated behind the desk, was all shadows and cool composure, his pale hands steepled as he considered Philippe’s report. “And how is she?” he asked at last, voice even, but softer than usual, as if the question itself required care.

Philippe shifted his weight, massive hands folded in front of him. Even in the authority of his suit, there was a heaviness to his stance. His jaw worked as he considered, voice gravel-thick, honest as always. “She’s… trying, boss. Brave face and all, but she’s not fooling anyone. She cries more than she lets on.” He hesitated, the words heavy. “She continues working, keeps the place tidy, even cracks a joke or two. But the apartment’s too quiet. Too empty without him.”

Corbeau nodded, absorbing it all in silence. He slid open a drawer, producing a polished wooden box. “It arrived yesterday,” he said, his tone soft and respectful. He set it on the desk with a deliberate care, the grain catching the lamplight. A vessel of memory, unmistakable in its gravity. Philippe’s gaze lingered, and understanding settled on his face like a shadow.

“There’s more,” Corbeau added. From beneath the box, he withdrew a clay impression of a massive paw, the ridges and pads pressed deep, immortalized in pale gray. 

Philippe swallowed, his composure faltering as he took in the gravity of the items. “Was she notified?”

“I thought it might be easier to have it brought home, rather than have her come here,” Corbeau replied, voice low, a touch of warmth breaking through his usual reserve. “This is a personal and sensitive subject, and I would feel better having it brought to her in the comfort of her own home.”

Philippe nodded, his hands gentle as he gathered the box and the imprint. “Thank you, sir.”

Then, Corbeau produced a simple, cream-colored envelope, heavy with a card, the front adorned with a stylized flame and the Syndicate crest, and your name in Corbeau’s precise, looping hand. “From me,” he said. “I had all the grunts sign it.” He tipped his head, a rare, almost fond glint in his eye. “Be sure she gets it as well.”

Philippe nodded, taking the envelope, before turning to leave.

Corbeau straightened his cuffs, then paused as Philippe reached the door. “Take the rest of the week off, Philippe. You’re needed more at home than you are here right now.”

Philippe’s eyes softened and he dipped his head in gratitude, a wordless thanks, before lumbering from the office, the box cradled like something precious.

*

The apartment was lit only by the soft glow of the TV, the soundtrack of some late-night show murmuring as you sat curled on the sofa, legs tucked beneath you. The air was heavy with the ghost of Arcanine—his scent lingering in the corners, in the blanket thrown over your knees, in the silent spaces where he used to sprawl.

Philippe’s key turned in the lock, and you looked up, offering him a tired but genuine smile. “Hey, big guy. Long day?”

He grunted an answer, setting his briefcase by the door and shrugging off his suit jacket, but he watched you with a searching intensity. You filled the space with chatter—stories about Urbain making a spectacle of himself as Quasartico’s new CEO, about Team MZ’s new plans to help with the restoration in Lumiose, your words tumbling out in a rush that was too bright, too forced.

Philippe tried to keep pace, nodding at the right places, offering a small smile, but you caught the shift in his eyes, the heaviness in his silence. You stopped, gaze narrowing. “What’s up?” you asked, gentle but direct. “Did something happen at work?”

He exhaled, the sound rumbling in his chest. Then, without a word, he crossed to you, lowering himself onto the sofa with care. His massive hands settled a beautiful wooden box in your lap, the weight of it was immediate, undeniable. Your hands trembled as you traced the smooth surface. Philippe offered up the clay imprint, setting it gently beside you. The details were so clear—each pad, each line, unmistakably Arcanine.

You stared, breath catching, and then reached for the imprint, your fingers shaky as you traced the grooves, feeling the size and shape that had always been such a part of your world. Tears welled, blurring your vision, and you pressed the imprint to your chest, a broken sound escaping as the grief you’d dammed up all week began to spill.

Philippe moved closer, his broad arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. His embrace was solid, unwavering, a shelter in the storm. You buried your face in the fabric of his jacket, sobbing, the pain raw and fresh all over again. He said nothing, just held you, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles over your back, anchoring you to the present.

When your sobs faded to hiccups and heavy breaths, he gently offered you the envelope, and you reached for it with trembling hands. Philippe stayed at your side as you slid the card free. Inside, the card was thick with signatures. Some messy, some careful, a patchwork of condolences and tiny notes. Corbeau’s stood out, elegant and precise, the lines of his script soothing in their control:

He was loyal in life, loyal in rest. The city is lesser for his loss, and so are we. —C.

Beneath the signatures, the card bore a short poem, its words simple, direct, but devastating:

“Gentle Goodbye” I kiss your head and let you go, Though tears fall endlessly. Love’s not bound by time or breath, You’re still right here with me.

The tears returned, but softer this time, less frantic. You let yourself cry, Philippe’s arm steady around you, letting the grief come and go in waves. He squeezed your shoulder, waiting until your tears faded to sniffles. He brushed a thumb over your cheek, voice gentle, impossibly soft for a man so imposing. “He was proud, you know. To be your partner. He knew how much you loved him.”

You nodded, managing a wet, grateful smile, as you ran your thumbs over Arcanine’s print, memorizing every ridge.

After a time, Philippe cleared his throat, a little awkward, a little hopeful. “How about we get out of here? Go down to Café Nouveau? Grisham’s truck’s still open. Arcanine always loved it there—remember how he’d try to sneak a whole baguette? And his Charizard’s probably missing you too.”

The suggestion was enough to bring fresh tears to your eyes, but you nodded, knowing he was right. The best way to honor Arcanine was to keep living, to do the things he had loved, to let his memory fill your life with warmth and laughter, even in the ache of his absence.

You let Philippe help you up, his big hand swallowing yours, and together you walked out into the city, the memory of your loyal friend burning, bright and unforgotten, in your heart.

Grisham

The city’s golden haze drifted through the Nouveau Café windows, catching on the chrome of the coffee truck parked curbside and the glassware lined in neat, geometric rows. Morning were always the busiest. Regulars lined up for their fix, the air fragrant with roasted beans and sweet, steamed milk. Grisham moved with careful precision behind the counter, sleeves rolled, pale-gray shirt crisp, orange-and-silver ponytail as immaculate as the glass he polished. He watched the queue inch forward, glasses glinting as he measured out a scoop of beans, tamped them just so, and set the portafilter in place.

Griselle was already at the window, taking orders with practiced charm. Her hair, blonde and orange, flashed in the sunlight as she leaned out, blue eyes scanning the street for familiar faces. Always alert, always half a second from a barbed retort. But this morning, she was subdued, lips pressed in a thin line. It was one of those rare lulls where neither had spoken for several minutes, each absorbed in their work.

Urbain’s arrival was unmistakable: a flash of pink trainers on the curb, a tousled head ducking as he strolled up, hands jammed into the pockets of his white joggers. He grinned, broad and crooked, waving as he leaned against the truck. “Yo, Grisham, Griselle. I’ll take my usual,” he called, his voice bright, but his gaze darted past both, scanning the bustling street.

Grisham nodded, polite as always, though something about Urbain’s energy struck him—the way he kept glancing around, searching for someone who wasn’t there. “Of course. One Burning Roast,” Grisham replied, carefully sliding a cup beneath the gleaming espresso machine. “Haven’t seen Team MZ’s ace card lately,” he added, almost offhand, voice even but edged with concern. “Is she…alright?”

Urbain’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but enough for Grisham to notice. He hesitated, mouth opening, shutting, then finally shrugged, more subdued. “Wait—she didn’t tell you?” His voice was softer now, the usual bravado gone. Griselle paused mid-pour, her hand tightening around the carafe.

“Told me what?” Grisham asked, keeping his tone neutral, though something cold crept into his chest.

Urbain let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging. “She put Arcanine down. Last week, I think. He’d gotten a lot worse.” For a moment, Urbain’s gaze drifted to the ground, the city’s hum filling the silence. “Didn’t say anything to me either—not until a few days ago.”

The words landed like a stone in Grisham’s chest. He stilled, knuckles whitening around the porcelain cup. “I see,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the practiced calm in his tone now just a thin veneer. Images flashed through his mind: late nights, the quiet space on the bed, your silhouette slipping silently out the door at dawn, always gone before he could speak.

Griselle, usually the first to bristle or snap, said nothing for a long moment. She set the carafe down gently, expression uncharacteristically solemn. “My Pyroar and Talonflame are gonna miss him,” she murmured, eyes on her reflection in the metal countertop. “He was a tough one.” For once, her voice was stripped of sarcasm, left only with a raw, reluctant respect.

Urbain nodded, gaze softening. “Yeah. Her Arcanine was something else.” He hesitated, then slid his coffee across the counter with a sigh. “Listen, she’s been…keeping to herself. A lot. And not just with you, Grisham. I think she’s hurting. Maybe give her some time, but—don’t let her shut you out for good, yeah?”

Grisham nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere, tracing the emptiness that had crept in over the past week, the silence that was more than just absence. It was a wound, left untended. He watched Urbain go, the younger man’s shoulders hunched, lingering guilt in every step.

He finished up the morning rush on autopilot, hands steady but heart unmoored. The day passed in a blur of orders and clinking glass, Griselle’s usual bite missing, her movements careful and subdued. When the last customer wandered off into the violet dusk, Grisham wiped down the counter, watching the city lights spark to life. 

He made a quiet decision. 

Tonight, he would wait for you. Not as a leader or a trainer, but as someone who cared, deeply, about the person slipping through his fingers.

*

The apartment was dark except for the thin spill of city light creeping through the half-open blinds, painting pale lines across the living room floor. You moved quietly, the door clicking shut behind you as you shrugged off your coat, trying to make as little sound as possible. For days now, you’d perfected this routine—slipping in after midnight, willing yourself invisible, avoiding the ache of conversation, the questions you weren’t ready to answer.

But tonight, as you rounded the corner toward the hall, you nearly jumped. The soft glow of a single lamp illuminated Grisham, sitting composed on the edge of the sofa, his glasses catching the light, his hands folded in his lap. He looked up, eyes sharp and bright behind the lenses, the orange streaks in his ponytail vivid even in the dimness.

He didn’t speak at first, just watched you with a quiet patience that made your chest tighten. When you finally met his gaze, something in you crumpled, and you looked away.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly, his voice gentle, calm as always. “I just…wanted to see you. It’s been a while since we’ve been in the same room.”

You tried to muster a reply, but your throat closed on the words. The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid.

Grisham stood, moving with that meticulous grace, and crossed to you. He stopped just a step away, keeping his posture careful. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, the question more a plea than a reproach. “You know I would have been there. For you. For Arcanine. Every step.”

The dam inside you cracked. Your jaw trembled as you tried to explain. “I’m sorry, Grisham. It just—everything happened so fast,” you managed, voice hoarse. “He stopped eating and then… it was just time. I didn’t want to bother you. I know how busy you are with the café, with everything—”

He cut you off, gently but firmly, reaching to take your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady. “Work can wait. You are never a bother to me. Not for something like this. Never.” Grisham’s voice wavered, just a little, and you saw the shimmer in his eyes, the careful mask slipping. “I wish you’d told me so I could have said goodbye to him. He…he meant a lot to me too, you know.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, and you pressed your face to his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your fingers. Grisham wrapped his arms around you, drawing you close, his embrace solid and reassuring. He held you, no words needed for a while, just the steady beat of his heart and the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice muffled against him. “I just…I thought I’d have more time, you know?”

He stroked your back, slow and soothing, his chin resting lightly atop your head. “I’m here—always. Even when you think you’re alone.”

You sobbed then, the grief you’d tried to keep silent pouring out in ragged waves. Grisham didn’t try to hush you or draw you away. He just held you through the shaking, the tears, the harsh breaths. His own eyes were wet when you finally looked up, but his smile was soft, unwavering.

“He went peacefully,” you whispered, voice trembling. “It was quick. He wasn’t in pain.”

Grisham nodded, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “That’s all any of us could hope for.” He kissed your forehead, lingering, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “He knew how much you loved him.”

As your tears slowed, turning to sniffles, you let yourself lean into him, letting the weight of grief settle into something quieter, less sharp. He guided you gently to the couch, keeping you close, and pulled a blanket around your shoulders. In the hush of the apartment, with the city’s distant hum outside, you sat together: Grisham’s arms around you, steady and sure, a silent promise that you could mourn here, and heal, without ever having to do it alone.

Kabu

The midday quiet in the flat was broken only by the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint, pulsing hum of the city beyond the window. You hadn’t bothered with the curtains; the sunlight streamed in, golden and gentle, painting the wooden floors with drifting warmth.

Curled in the living room you were cocooned in a world of fur and memory, buried half beneath the massive, familiar bulk of Kabu’s Arcanine, your arms wound tight around his mane, your cheek pressed to the heat of his chest. His tail thumped once, slow and careful, as you shifted, but he stayed still, a silent guardian, letting you cling as long as you needed.

Your eyes were raw, red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Even now, tears threatened to well up again, stinging in the corners as you pressed your face deeper into Arcanine’s neck. The scent of him—hot, wild, and smoky—brought back a thousand memories. You didn’t care how hot you were, how sweat dampened your hairline and made your shirt stick to your back. The warmth was the point; you needed it, even if it ached.

Across the room, your Alolan Ninetales lay curled in a pale, ethereal crescent, her nine tails pooled in a glacial swirl. She watched you with serene blue eyes, every so often lifting her head to check for the signs of distress you couldn’t quite hide. When the heat got to be too much, she would glide closer on silent paws, a hush of frosted air cooling your skin, her presence gentle but aloof. She never got too close to Kabu’s Arcanine. Never more than a few feet away, content to watch, her breath casting a shimmer of frost in the summer-warm room. She’d always gotten on with your Arcanine, but Kabu’s was wild, a little too rough for her liking. Still, she kept her distance, patient and regal, understanding without words.

The door opened with a soft click and Kabu’s footsteps crossed the threshold, unmistakable and measured, the tread of a man who had spent decades on league floors and training grounds. His salt-and-pepper hair was damp at the temples, a white towel draped around his neck, the red of his shirt stark against the paleness of the day. He paused in the doorway watching you for a moment, your face half-hidden, eyes swollen, and your body curled so tight around his Arcanine that you might’ve disappeared into his fur if you tried.

Kabu crossed the room, kneeling beside you and laying a strong, gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re going to overheat, love,” he murmured, voice soft but edged with concern. He brushed a thumb across your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin, the sweat at your brow. “You’re burning up.”

He turned to Arcanine, who flicked an ear and offered a low, rumbling moan, a sound that was half comfort, half question. Kabu smiled, stroking his Pokémon’s ruff. “How’s she doing, big fella? Holding up?” Arcanine huffed, a warm plume of air rustling your hair, but didn’t move, his own heavy head pressed content against your side.

Kabu’s brow furrowed with gentle worry. He stood and crossed to your Ninetales, squatting beside her as she lifted her head, ears tilting in curiosity. “Would you mind helping me, lass?” he asked, peeling the towel from around his neck and holding it out. “I could use a little of your magic.” Ninetales regarded him coolly for a heartbeat. She’d never been one for taking orders from anyone but you, but then, with a delicate, almost regal nod, she exhaled. A swirl of frost danced from her muzzle, coating the towel in a shimmering glaze of ice.

“Thank you,” Kabu said, a rare softness in his eyes. He returned, kneeling beside you, and gently pressed the icy towel to the back of your neck. The chill was a shock, but it made you shiver, breath catching, the heat in your skin retreating. He smoothed your hair, thumb tracing your jaw, his presence steady, unhurried. “There you go. Don’t want you getting sick, too,” he murmured.

He stood again, glancing from you to Ninetales. “Would you like to help me with lunch?” he asked her, voice brightening just a touch, as though the act of preparing food might break the spell of grief in the air. Ninetales, grateful for the invitation, rose with a graceful sweep of her tails and padded after him, the tips of her fur trailing icy patterns across the polished floor.

Arcanine gave a soft, plaintive whine as Kabu moved away, a sound deep enough to vibrate through your chest. Kabu turned back, kneeling one more time to scratch behind the Pokémon’s ears. “You’re doing good, old friend,” he said, voice thick with gratitude. “She needs you. More than you know.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and dry. “Rest a bit. I’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

You let yourself drift, lulled by the warmth of Arcanine’s body, the cool press of the towel, and the quiet symphony of Kabu and Ninetales moving in the kitchen—pots clinking, low voices, the sizzle of something frying. For a little while, your world shrank to these small, precious comforts: the steady heartbeat beneath your ear, the faint scent of smoke and ice, and the promise of a meal made with care, waiting for you on the other side of the grief.

When Kabu finally called your name, his voice gentle and sure, you surfaced from your haze, the ache in your heart a little less sharp for the love and warmth wrapped around you from every side.

Leon

Lunch beneath the broad, wind-stirred trees of Giant’s Mirror had become a balm—a ritual that helped you remember how to breathe again. The wild grass was tall, stirring around your ankles, and the sky above hung wide and blue, the heat of summer softened by a gentle breeze. You and Leon sat on a plaid blanket, your half-eaten sandwiches scattered between you, Leon’s Charizard lounging nearby, tail flame flickering lazily as he watched the world with relaxed, confident eyes.

You were doing okay. Some days were better than others. The ache in your chest, the rawness, had faded into something softer, more bearable. But it never quite left. Grief waited in the wings, ready to claim you with the smallest thing—a passing child with their partner pokemon, the sight of a trainer sitting with their Pokémon, sharing a quiet meal, the sound of a bark on the wind.

Today, though, you felt steady, content to simply be here, watching Charizard doze and Leon absentmindedly draw patterns in the dirt with a twig as he recounted his latest misadventure. The world felt almost calm, until you heard a soft rustle near you.

A young Growlithe appeared, his orange fur vivid against the green, black stripes rippling as he moved low through the grass. He wasn’t bold, but he wasn’t frightened either. His eyes were sharp, nose twitching as he followed the scent of your lunch. You stilled, heart thudding, and Leon looked up at your sudden silence.

“Looks like we have a visitor, love,” Leon grinned at you. 

Your heart squeezed. “Hello, there,” you coaxed, voice soft, careful. The growlithe paused a few meters away, ears pricked, tail held high in wary curiosity. “You hungry?” You tore off a bit of your sandwich—ham and berry jam, a messy bite—and gently tossed it toward him. 

Growlithe watched the food fall, nose twitching, but hesitated. After a few moments, he crept forward, sniffed, and then snapped up the morsel. He chewed, eyes flicking back to you, then to Leon, then back again, as if weighing the risks of coming closer.

You tossed another bit, this time a little closer, and the Growlithe took less time to accept it. You watched and observed in calm silence as the young pokemon kept following and accepting the pieces you tossed until he was within arms reach. You held out a piece in your hand, palm up, fingers relaxed. The Growlithe crept closer still, until his cold nose brushed your fingertips and he gently took a scrap from your hand. The moment you stroked his head, his tail wagged, uncertain but hopeful.

Leon watched, fascinated, the fondness in his gaze softening even his usually bombastic features. Leon grinned, the warmth in his amber eyes unmistakable. “I think he likes you,” he said. TheGgrowlithe turned to Leon, sniffed his hand, then—deciding he was safe—jumped up and licked his face with a boof. Leon burst out laughing, roughhousing with him, scratching behind his ears until his tail wagged in a wide, sweeping arc.

“He reminds me of your Arcanine,” Leon said, voice gentle. “Same way he looked at me. Like he was sizing me up, but never really worried.” He offered a piece of sandwich, and Growlithe sniffed, then greedily wolfed it down, licking Leon’s fingers with a happy boof.

You smiled, feeling something flutter in your chest—hope, maybe, or the ghost of something lost. “He does,” you said, quietly, feeling your throat tighten. “Arcanine was just like this as a growlithe—friendly, brave, always hungry.” Your smile became watery as the Growlithe climbed into your lap, panting against your thigh, his fluffy body heavy and real.

Leon cocked his head, watching you with concern and kindness. “Do you want to catch him?” he asked, voice careful. No pressure, just the offer, the understanding.

Growlithe gazed up at you, tongue lolling, eyes soft and trusting. You stroked his head, feeling the warmth of his body, the way he pressed into your palm. “I don’t think I’m ready, yet,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Besides, if I tried to catch him and he popped out of the pokeball and ran...”

Leon didn’t argue. He just nodded, letting the silence settle, a comfortable buffer between you and the world. “Alright,” he said, voice low.

You packed up your things slowly, Growlithe still trailing close, nosing through your bag for more treats. When you turned to leave, you crouched down, cupping his head in both hands, rubbing his soft ears, and leaving him a handful of berries.

“Thank you,” you said, voice thick. “You’re a good boy.” You stood, brushing at your eyes, and Leon called Charizard over, the dragon stretching his wings and rumbling a deep, contented purr. As you climbed onto Charizard’s back, Growlithe barked once, high and sharp, then scrambled forward, pawing at Charizard’s tail. He leapt, trying to clamber up. Charizard, surprised, peered down, nostrils flaring in gentle curiosity.

Leon laughed. “Looks like he’s not ready to say goodbye either.”

You tried to deflect, voice shaky. “He probably just wants more food.”

Leon shook his head. “You sure about that?”

You bit your lip, uncertainty warring with longing. “Charizard, can you… scare him off? Nothing big. Just enough to make him head back to the wilds.”

Charizard eyed you, then Growlithe, as if weighing the wisdom of such an act. Still, he growled—a low, rumbling challenge. Growlithe startled, but instead of running, he barked back, bristling, challenging the much bigger dragon with puppy bravado.

Leon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That’s some backbone.”

Charizard, perhaps reluctantly, beat his wings, sending a powerful gust that knocked Growlithe off his paws. He tumbled back, landing in a sprawl, but within seconds he was up, growling, determined, not cowed in the slightest.

You watched, heart aching and full. “Persistent little guy,” you murmured.

“Persistent, or resilient?” Leon countered, watching the scene with admiration.

Growlithe, undeterred, charged forward and tackled Charizard’s leg. The impact was laughably small, but the intent was clear. Charizard blinked, then laughed—a happy, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. Growlithe rolled, whimpered, but looked up at you, whining softly, still refusing to back down.

Leon turned to you, his gaze gentle. “He really doesn’t want to leave. It’s okay if you’re not ready, but… if you are, I think he’s picked you.”

You stared at Growlithe, at his persistence, his hope, the fierce loyalty in his eyes. You felt your resolve to walk away dissolve, replaced by something warm and bittersweet. You slid off Charizard’s back and walked back to Growlithe, calmly.

“Is that what you want? You want to come with me?” you asked, voice trembling. Growlithe’s ears perked, his body softening as he watched you approach. You smiled, tears brimming over, and asked again, “Would you like to come with me, Growlithe?”

With a joyous yip, Growlithe barreled into you, knocking you flat in the grass, licking your cheek with quick, eager swipes.

Leon knelt beside you, offering a Pokéball. “Go on,” he said, smiling, his voice steady and proud.

You took it, holding it out to Growlithe. “Are you sure?” you whispered. Growlithe barked, then nudged the ball with his nose. In a flash of red light, he vanished inside, the ball shuddering in your palm, then falling still and sparkling, capture complete.

You released him again immediately. Growlithe reappeared, bounding into your lap, and you hugged him close, burying your face in his fur.

Leon grinned, beckoning to Charizard. “Looks like we’re walking back to Hammerlocke, partner.” Charizard rumbled in agreement, bending to sniff the new addition. Growlithe, trusting, let him, tail wagging, previous scuffle forgotten.

As you set off, Leon kept pace beside you, Charizard trailing behind, the sun warm on your backs. You glanced down at Growlithe, at his eager, trusting face. The ache of loss was still there, but it was softened by the promise of new beginnings, and the certainty that some bonds, once forged, would never really leave you.

Raihan

The air in Hammerlocke’s stadium still buzzed with the static of your battle, heat shimmering off the stone as the crowd’s memory faded into the evening. You stood at center field, heart thumping with the lingering thrill of victory, sweat damp at your brow, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue. Raihan’s gym was never easy: sandstorms swirling, dragons roaring, tactics twisting like the wind. But you’d won, and the pride on his face was as real as the ache in your arms.

Raihan approached, tall and sharp against the floodlights, hoodie half-zipped and hairband askew, his cheeks flushed from the fight and his teal eyes glinting with honest respect. “You’re getting too good,” he called, grinning, voice echoing across the emptying pitch. “If Leon doesn’t watch out, you’ll have his job.”

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in weeks. “I don’t want his job. But I figured it was time. Gotta make sure I don't get rusty.” Your voice was steady, but beneath it there was a fragile tremor—a memory of loss that never strayed far.

Raihan’s gaze lingered a moment longer, reading you. The familiar glint in his eye softened, the cocky veneer slipping aside for something more careful. “Wait here,” he said, and strode off toward the gym’s back rooms, boots thudding against the polished floor.

You wiped your face on your sleeve, letting the silence settle. You’d gotten used to being alone after matches, used to the way your mind wandered to the empty spaces Arcanine once filled—his thunderous steps beside you, his deep, steady presence at your back. The ache was duller now, but no less real.

When Raihan returned, he wasn’t alone. In his arms, wriggling and squirming with pent-up energy, was a young Growlithe, her orange fur vivid, black stripes bold, cream mane fluffed out like a lion’s ruff. She yipped, barking once, then twice, wriggling in Raihan’s grip, nipping at his sleeve with sharp little teeth.

Your gasped as your eyes widened. “Is that a …?”

Raihan gave you a look—half warning, half apology. “Yeah, one of the growlithe from Kabu’s Arcanine,” he confirmed, trying to remove her mouth that was clamped on his sleeve. “I know you said you weren’t ready. And Leon told me I should wait, but…this one was returned for being ‘too aggressive’.” He winced as the Growlithe growled at him and nipped his hand. He continued.

“But honestly? I think she’s just pushy. She’s smart, and learns fast. Kabu wasn’t surprised at all. After getting her back he originally was going to raise her alongside the male he kept back, but raising and training two young pokemon and a gym to run is a lot for him. And he didn’t want to give her to just anyone, seeing how her first home handled her.” He looked over at you. “No pressure, though. He’s not asking or expecting you to keep her. Just to help raise and train her.”

The Growlithe scrunched her face and batted his fingers away with her paw and gave a sharp, imperious bark as he set her down. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the boss,” he muttered, rolling his eyes but not unkindly. 

The Growlithe circled, sniffing the turf, then stalked straight up to you, tail high, eyes sharp with curiosity and a flicker of challenge. She sat at your feet, head cocked, tongue lolling, as if daring you to reach for her. You crouched, holding out your hand, letting her sniff your fingers. She licked once, quick and bold, then pressed her head into your palm, demanding a scratch. The warmth of her fur, the way she leaned, brazen and trusting, made your throat close. You blinked hard, fighting the sting in your eyes.

“She’s got some attitude, though” Raihan said, both amused and a little rueful. “Kabu said that all females of his Arcanine’s line are like that. But once you break through to them, their loyalty is unmatched, and they’re strong and tenacious in battles. But man, she’s a menace. Bit my hand, burned my sleeve, and tried to eat my phone. And she’s not a fan of me, either.” He turned his arm to show a fresh bite mark near his wrist, then another faded scar near his elbow, grinning. 

You clucked your tongue, sympathy and amusement mingling. “Female Growlithe are always spicier than the males. It'll only get worse from here, I'm afraid." Raihan huffed and rolled up his sleeve, displaying a constellation of bite marks and faint burn scars. “She’ll be a handful, for sure,” you added, pulling Growlithe into your arms. She wriggled, then settled, licking your cheek and nuzzling your jaw. “But she’s perfect.” You glanced at Raihan, voice softer. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance but unable to hide the pride in his eyes. “Between your Arcanine, Leon’s Charizard, and now this little monster, I’m getting kinda sick of fire-types."

You raised a brow at him. "What're talking about? You had a torkoal and a turtonator on your team at one point."

Raihan rolled his eyes. "I mean—Torkoal was fine, but Turtonator at least was part dragon."

“Yeah right, you loved that Torkoal.”

“Yeah, for all of like, one week, until Nessa one-shotted him in a battle. And don’t forget that he turned half my gym into a sauna. Never again.” He leaned in, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, drawing you and Growlithe in close. “Alright. For Kabu—and for the record books.” He lifted the phone, but just as he hit the shutter, Growlithe lunged again, grabbing his bandana and yanking it sideways, leaving you both tangled and laughing in the frame.

Lysandre

Lysandre’s office was a cathedral of glass and steel, sunlight spilling across geometric patterns, the city’s heartbeat muted far below. He sat behind his desk, tall and imposing, every inch the visionary, every gesture precise. His hair flared around his face like a halo of flame, beard sharp, blue eyes catching the light as he rose to greet you.

He didn't smile. He never truly did, not for you, not for anyone. But there was a softness, rare and private, in the way he inclined his head. “When I heard,” he said, his voice low, cavernous, “I felt it deeply. Your Arcanine was not merely beautiful—he was extraordinary. Even among legends, he stood apart.”

You nodded, throat thick, your hand curling around the sleeve of your coat. It was easier to accept condolences from Lysandre, oddly; he spoke of your partner as a scholar would a painting, with reverence and gravity, never the hollow cheer of those who had never loved something enough to grieve it.

He gestured you to a seat, a flick of his gloved hand, and you settled in, feeling the ache of memory settle over your shoulders. Lysandre regarded you a moment longer, then pressed a button on his desk. There was a faint whir, and the glass wall to your left slid open, revealing a small, sun-drenched alcove.

A male Growlithe padded into the office, orange fur bright, stripes vivid, eyes wide and searching. He paused, uncertain, but when he caught your scent, his ears pricked, tail wagging in a cautious little flourish. Lysandre moved with measured grace, kneeling beside him, one large hand stroking his ruff with surprising gentleness.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Is that…?”

“A growlithe, yes. They are not native to Kalos,” Lysandre said, his voice weaving around the silence.

"How did you—"

“The sanctuary staff believe he was abandoned," Lysandre continued. "He simply appeared one morning, thin and wary, but full of fire. I provided funding for his care, of course. At first, I intended to keep him for myself. But we did not suit each other.” He lifted a shoulder in a self-deprecating shrug, gaze drifting to the horizon. “He is gentle, but strong-willed. Too much so, perhaps, for the life I lead. But you…I thought perhaps, if you would allow it, he might find a home with you.”

You knelt, extending your hand. Growlithe sniffed, then pressed into your palm, her body warm and trembling, eager for the contact. He licked your fingers, eyes shining with trust. You could already sense the shape of his heart, the same fierce loyalty you’d once known. It would be so easy to say yes, and yet the memory of Lysandre’s ambitions—his attempts to draw you into Team Flare, the grand rhetoric about beauty and sacrifice—hovered at the edge of your mind. You hesitated, fingers buried in the puppy’s thick, warm ruff.

Lysandre saw the flicker in your eyes, and his smile faded into something more careful, almost gentle. “You have no obligation to accept. No strings, no bargains. I offer him freely. Though—” His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a threat. “—I confess, it would please me greatly if you would reconsider my invitation. Team Flare would be—improved, with your presence. You would have the world at your feet, and I would have…” He trailed off, the admission left hanging, too dangerous to voice.

You could feel the weight of his gaze, the hunger for something beautiful and untouchable, the desire for you to be part of his vision. But there was no pressure, not truly, only the offer and the silent wish.

You looked up, meeting Lysandre’s gaze. “Thank you,” you said simply. “He’s… perfect.” Your voice caught, but you smiled, tears prickling as Growlithe leaned against you, fearless and trusting.

Lysandre inclined his head, relief flickering in the depths of his eyes. “I hope he brings you some measure of peace.” He paused, considering. “And if you ever wish to talk about him, about your Arcanine, or about anything at all—my door is always open.”

He escorted you to the door, his presence a shadow at your side.

“Remember,” he said, low, just for you, “beauty is not only what we preserve, but what we nurture. He will thrive with you. As would you, with us.”

You paused in the doorway, Growlithe warm in your arms, the city spread below like a kingdom of possibility. You did not answer his last invitation—there was no need. The choice, for now, was enough.

Behind you, Lysandre stood tall in the golden light, watching as you stepped out into the world, a new ember in your heart.

L

The old ruins of Prism Tower cut a jagged outline against the overcast Kalos sky, their battered ironwork tangled in ivy and the ghosts of old light. You waited at the base of the scaffolding, hands tucked in your pockets, heart thrumming with a quiet, unfamiliar anticipation. It had been months since the world had felt bright—since the day you’d said goodbye to Arcanine. L’s texts and calls had become your lifeline, a thread of gentle persistence that pulled you through the days. When he’d told you he was coming to Lumiose for a visit, your pulse had ached with bittersweet excitement

You spotted him first—tall, spare, his white hair falling in uneven tufts beneath the battered hood of his jacket, an old red X stitched on the knee of his gray pants. He moved with quiet purpose, a little hunched as if still unused to being seen in the world again. At his side, Zygarde in its 10% form loped, green leash-frill flickering with every movement, eyes bright and direct. And bounding beside Zygarde, almost comically small—but stockier by comparison—was the unmistakable flash of orange and black. A Growlithe, tail wagging, tongue lolling, keeping pace with easy, puppyish confidence. You felt your brain delay in its process at the sight. 

Zygarde spotted you first, barking a deep, resonant boof that echoed through the steel and stone, shaking loose a laugh from your chest. L’s head came up, and for a moment, he just watched you, a soft, understanding smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

When you reached them, Zygarde pressed his head into your hands, his butt wagging, and Growlithe, emboldened by the greeting, leapt up and put both paws on your knees, looking for approval. You knelt, scratching Zygarde’s snout and ruffling Growlithe’s thick ruff, your laughter bright and unguarded for the first time in ages.

“You brought company,” you said, voice muffled by Growlithe’s eager tongue against your cheek. “Where did you find him? I thought they weren'tnative to Kalos.”

L nodded, kneeling beside you. His presence was grounding, both familiar and changed, the weight of his remorse and hope settling between you. “Somewhere in Galar. He’d been following Zygarde and me since then. I didn’t have the heart to turn him away.” He rested a hand on Zygarde’s flank, fingers brushing green and black fur. 

You looked at the Growlithe, who flopped at your feet, rolling onto his back for a belly rub, utterly unbothered by the ruined city, by the strangeness of Zygarde’s green gaze, by the lingering tension in your own heart. You stroked his belly, feeling the warmth and trust of his body. Longing and fear warred in your chest.

“I do not mind if he stays with me, but…it would be a shame to let such a proud, strong soul go without a purpose," L said. He looked at you then, his gaze steady, stripped of the old arrogance, all that remained a quiet, tentative hope. “But he fits here, with Zygarde—and, I believe, with you.” 

You could feel the old ache stirring, the memory of Arcanine—your first, your fiercest, your gentlest companion. The idea of another, of starting again, felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, the wind urging you forward but your feet rooted in grief.

“He’s strong,” L said, as if reading your thoughts. “Resourceful. But not wild. He wants a partner. And Zygarde never tried to drive him off. In fact, I think he kept him close. For you, maybe.” 

Zygarde boofed, a deep, rumbling sound of encouragement, tail thumping the ground. Growlithe looked up at you, eyes soft, ears perked, curious.

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” you admitted quietly, voice trembling. “But maybe I never will be. Maybe waiting to be ready is just…hiding.”

L’s hand covered yours, gentle and steady. “You don’t have to decide now. But I think you would both be good for each other. Sometimes, the world gives us a second chance. Sometimes we have to make our own.”

You looked at Zygarde, who met your gaze with his white, hexagonal eyes, then huffed, as if to say, “what are you waiting for?” 

You looked back down at the Growlithe. “Well, would you like to be with me?” you asked softly, crouching low. Growlithe barked, rolling to his feet and nuzzling your palm before looking up at you with bright, expectant eyes. L watched, approval subtle but unmistakable in the crease of his smile.

L stood, dusting off his coat, and offered you his hand. “Come,” he said, voice lighter than you’d heard in years. “Let’s walk a while. The city’s waiting for new memories.”