#lysandre x reader

You clung tightly to your lover as he rutted into you harshly. Your bodies were drenched with sweat, which dripped onto the crimson, silken sheets beneath. His grip was near painful as he held your ankles in a position. Blue eyes filled with fiery determination. He was merciless in his thrusts— burying himself entirely to the hilt before nearly pulling himself back out at a breakneck pace. He kept going and going, ramming himself into the deepest part of you.

His orange hair, so usually immaculately styled, as a mess of flames atop his head. His beard scratched at your neck as kisses were peppered along your jawline. You cried out his name, begging for him. Begging for what? You had been so angry with him, yet now you could hardly remember. You just wanted him to keep rutting into your poor body. His forehead pressed to your own, mumbling affectionate words.  His hand threw your leg over his shoulder to instead bring his hand down. The pad of his thumb pressed onto your clit, rubbing it with an expertise of your body. A cry escaped you before you felt yourself awash with pleasure. Calling out his name— Lysandre gazed down at you with an intense expression.

“Such beauty… This is why you must stay at my side,” he spoke with finality, “Soon, all beauty will be eternal.”

~

Fingers interlocked as he rocked his hips gently. You tightened your grip on his hand, watching his good eye squeeze close. He mumbled again about just how tight you were. The pace was steady and mindful, almost desperate to make the feeling last. You wrapped a leg around his waist, leaning back against the bed. You both needed to be quiet— staying in a hotel and whatnot. He ground himself inside you, clearly trying to please you more than himself. Your toes curled. The two of you found each other's lips as a kiss was sealed. It was hardly anything more than chaste, but emotions swirled within the connection.

His white hair was all over, making you bring your free hand up to soothe the strands down, feeling the soft texture. You mumbled his name with pure adoration. He cried your own with the same fervour. Your eyes locked with his pale one. Such love was pouring out from it. His hips moved quicker, seemingly growing ever more desperate to help you find purchase. Your hand was freed from his hold as he moved to lavish your clit with attention. The electric shock of pleasure came from how he ground himself right into your deepest part in time with his rubbing. It was no long until your walls clasped down on his length as your body was awash in the orgasmic high. His name left your lips again— The identity L had begun to reclaim in a new light.

You woke to quiet, a hush that settled over your skin rather than pressed against your ears. The light was low, gold instead of black, enough to paint the room in soft amber and reveal the truth you wished you could pretend you didn’t feel:

Time had passed.

And he had been with you more than once.

The sheets bore proof of it—creased, warm, whispering against your thighs where your skin was still oversensitized. A dull ache pulsed through your hips, your breath catching at the memory your body refused to let drift.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. But Lysandre was awake. You felt that before you felt anything else.

You lay on your side, facing the wall, pretending distance you no longer physically had. His arm rested around your waist—loose, confident, claiming without force. The way someone holds something that will not flee anymore.

“You don’t regret it,” he said quietly behind you. Not a question. A verdict.

Your fingers curled in the sheets. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Mmm. No,” he agreed softly. “But you wear truth in your pulse.”

You felt him shift, the mattress dipping, the heat of his chest brushing your back. Closer but not yet touching enough to scandalize your denial. He gave you the space to pretend you weren’t leaning infinitesimally into him.

“When you came apart beneath me,” he murmured, “you stopped fighting your own body. You let yourself feel.”

Your breath hitched as the humiliation, memory, and something warmer fouled together.

“Stop analyzing me.”

“I was admiring you,” Lysandre corrected, voice rich and soothing, his nose brushing a strand of your hair. “I always do.”

Silence thickened, heavier than before. Your heartbeat steadied despite your intention.

Then—

“I watched your Pokémon while you slept.”

The words snapped you awake. You twisted toward him, fear slicing clean through the haze. “What?”

“They were restless in their pokéballs,” he said, infuriatingly calm. “Eevee in particular, the one who insists on sleeping curled against your ribs.”

Your chest tightened. She was your first partner. Your constant. Your small, fierce defender.

“They settled the moment I released them and they saw you unharmed.”

Unharmed. The word hung indecently between you.

“They trust you completely,” he added.

“Don’t,” you whispered, throat constricting. “Don’t talk about them like you know them.”

“But I do,” he said, fingers brushing the curve of your waist. “Because I pay attention to what you love.”

A shiver rippled through you—fear, fury…and the awful heat that came anytime he touched you with reverence rather than force.

“You inspire loyalty,” he said. “Not obedience. You could have commanded your Pokémon to strike me. Yet they didn’t.”

“They were confused,” you insisted.

“They were not,” Lysandre murmured. “Even in fear, they trusted your judgment. Your choices.”

You swallowed, eyes burning. “Then why are you doing this to me?”

His hand slid over your hip, palm warm, grounding, unbearably intimate. “Because you are the only example I’ve found of strength that does not corrupt. You are proof that beauty can endure without cruelty. Proof the world could have been redeemed…had there been more like you.”

“You’re using me to justify your destruction?”

“No.” He shifted, sitting up enough that the blanket slid down his abdomen, exposing red curls on his chest and the stark lines of muscle beneath pale skin. His eyes found yours—intense, consuming, too honest for comfort. “I use you to remember what deserves preservation.”

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye until your lashes fluttered against his skin.

“You are not a casualty,” he whispered. “You are a necessity.”

Your pulse hammered, traitorous.

He leaned in until your foreheads touched, a gesture far too gentle for the man planning to end the world.

“Your ideals survive,” he murmured. “Your Pokémon survive. Because you will.”

You shook your head weakly. “You’re twisting everything.”

“No,” he said. “I’m offering clarity.”

His arm tightened around you. No restraint, just weight, warmth, inevitability. The kind you could sink into if you weren’t so afraid of yourself.

“You could have hated me,” he said softly. “But your body knew otherwise each time I touched you. Each time I entered you. Each time you broke and I held you through it.”

Heat rushed through you, shame and arousal sparking in equal measure.

“Your world,” you rasped, “isn’t mine.”

He exhaled against your ear, hot, devastating. “You say that with your voice,” he murmured, “but not with your body.”

You stiffened.

He felt it, and smiled. “You’re afraid,” he continued, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not of me…but of how much sense I already make to you.”

The room seemed to grow smaller, his presence folding around you like another blanket—one you couldn’t push off even if you tried.

His hand slid along your side, fingers trailing the shape of your ribs, your waist, the faint tremble beneath your skin.

“This world will end,” he said, calm as prophecy. “And I will build the next with my own hands.”

Your jaw locked, but he continued, voice dipping into something darker, hungrier.

“And you,” Lysandre whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “will be its beginning. Its bloodline. Its continuity.” His breath warm against your skin.

“Mine.”

Your breath stuttered. “I won’t,” you whispered, though it emerged weak, trembling, already betraying the fear of understanding exactly what he meant.

His lips curved against your cheek—slow, certain, devastating. “Little flame…” His voice softened to something reverent. “…you already are.”

His hand slid over your stomach, not overtly sexual but possessive in a way that made your body heat and chill at once. He drew you back against him, fitting you to him in a way that told you he’d memorized every angle, every weakness. Refusal wasn’t something he needed to counter. It was something he had already accounted for.

“You will carry what I leave in you,” he murmured, sinful against your throat. “You will continue what I begin. And I will return to you”—his fingers tightened on your waist—“again and again, until your body answers mine without fear. Until yielding feels as natural as breathing. Until my legacy rests under your heart.”

Then his mouth took yours—deep, claiming, determined, coaxing your resistance into something molten, something aching and frighteningly close to desire. His certainty pressed into you harder than his body ever had.

And under the weight of it—your defenses didn’t shatter.

They melted.

It started out with a vacation to get away from the constant challenges, administrative work, and expectations that came with your work. Just time off. Just travel. Just breathing room.

Of course, it didn’t quite work out that way.

Somewhere between helping strangers, getting pulled into local problems, and refusing to walk away when something still needed fixing, you ended up staying longer than intended. Now, you move through unfamiliar regions with the same mix of warmth and competence you bring everywhere—technically “on break,” but never really off-duty.

But that was five years ago. Five years ago, when you traveled to Kalos for a vacation. Five years ago, when you got roped into dealing with Team Flare. Five years ago, when you fell for him. Five years ago, when he broke your heart, choosing his mission over you.

When you battled for the fate of the world.

When he fired the Ultimate Weapon… and cursed both of you to a life of immortality.

As far as you know, Lysandre hadn’t made it out of the rubble.

Luckily, AZ had taken you in under his wing. You helped him at the hotel, resigning from your work to have some peace after the events that nearly ended your life—the events that extended your life to at least three thousand years, if AZ was correct.

You never thought you’d see Lysandre again, outside of your dreams and nightmares. He was presumed dead. 

You thought he was gone. You mourned him. Grieved him. Lost countless hours of sleep wondering what you could have done better to save him.

So why the hell was he sitting in right in front of you?

You stare, frozen in place, as the visage of the man who ruined your life sits calmly in the lobby with the teenagers of Team MZ. The man who made your heart race like it never had before. Who whispered such pretty nothings in your ear. Who, in the end, made his choice… and it wasn’t you. Who fired the Ultimate Weapon and cursed you with a life of eternity.

Sitting right there. In Hotel Z’s lobby. Looking at you like none of that had ever happened.

Like he doesn’t even remember you.

Tears sting your eyes as you stare at him from behind the counter, next to AZ, a flurry of emotions swelling in your heart—rage, grief, pain, disbelief, fear, relief…

And he just stares impassively at you.

The man—L—stares back across the room, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight of you. He feels an odd sense of familiarity upon seeing you: your face, your eyes, your skin, your wrinkles. It’s all naggingly familiar—so is the ache in his chest. His gaze flicks over your features, lingering on tearful eyes that seem to stare into his very soul. A sense of recognition begins to form in his mind, but it eludes him like a hazy dream.

“…Taunie. Urbain.” You clear your throat as you address the twins, gripping the edge of the check-in desk so hard your knuckles nearly go white. “Who is this? What’s he doing here?”

Urbain, the shorter of the two twins, turns toward you with a curious look on his face. He had noticed the way you’d frozen in place and was now watching the scene with a mixture of concern and intrigue. Taunie, the taller, more observant twin, raises an eyebrow and casts a brief glance back at the man they know as L before replying.

“Him? That’s our guest, L,” she says with a shrug, her voice nonchalant. “He arrived earlier today. Why do you ask?”

A single grey, dulled eye stares back at you.

“…No. No. He can’t stay here.” Not after everything he put you through. Not after stealing your heart and life. Not after having the audacity to sit there and pretend he doesn’t know you— “He has to go.”

Taunie and Urbain exchange a quick glance, confused by your sudden hostility. Taunie leans in slightly, lowering her voice.

“Hey… what’s the problem? Did he do something?”

Urbain, ever the peacekeeper, raises his hands slightly. “Uh—maybe this is a misunderstanding? L’s been nothing but polite since he got here.”

Meanwhile, Lysandre—no, L—tilts his head slightly, studying your expression with vague recognition flickering in his mismatched eyes. “You seem… upset,” he murmurs, his voice low and measured, almost hesitant. “Have we met before?”

There’s a twist in your stomach at the question. He really doesn’t remember. Or is he just lying?

…No. Lysandre was many things, but he wasn’t a liar. Not even the events of five years ago could change that.

Warm tears fall from your eyes, and you sharply turn on your heel to enter the office behind the check-in desk, slamming the door closed behind you. Urbain and Taunie exchange a concerned glance as you storm away. L’s gaze remains fixed on the door you’d just slammed shut. He could see the pain in your eyes—the tears that fell from your face—and it stirred something inside of him, but he couldn’t quite place it. All he knew was that you seemed familiar.

Meanwhile, AZ, who had been observing the scene silently, finally speaks up.

“Give them a moment to calm down,” he advises. “For some reason, they seem quite upset by L’s presence.”

AZ knew of your history with L—when he was Lysandre. You had run into each other a couple times during your journey across Kalos five years ago. You had taken care of Floette after Lysandre fired the Ultimate Weapon, returning the precious Pokémon to him as you broke down, grieving your own love and the loss of your mortality.

He knew why you were so upset. He can’t say he blames you; he’d feel no differently in your shoes.

Urbain looks at AZ, worry etched on his face. “I hope everything’s okay…” he murmurs, glancing at the door behind which you’d vanished.

Taunie runs a hand through her hair, her expression equally concerned.

Meanwhile, AZ nods thoughtfully. “I have a feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye,” he says, his gaze drifting to L. It wasn't his place to say anything. 

L remains silent, deep in thought, still staring at the closed door.

You manage to make it to the back corner of the office before your shaky legs collapse against the wall, hyperventilating and crying as quietly as you can. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real…!

In the lobby, L can hear the faint sound of your sobs coming from the office. For some inexplicable reason, it only makes his heart pang even more.

Urbain and Taunie exchange a helpless glance, unsure of what to do. They’ve never seen you so worked up before.

Meanwhile, AZ listens intently, his expression growing more concerned. “I’ll check on them,” he tells the twins before making his way toward the office door.

You curl in on yourself in the back corner, pushing aside five years of personal growth in order to break down.

Five years. You were hopeless and despondent after the incident, barely leaving the hotel for the first few months. When you did leave, it was for your Pokémon, who worried about their trainer. You lost weight from how little you ate. Some muscles atrophied slightly due to neglect and disuse.

It took you so long to finally crawl out of that hole of depression—so long to stand on your own two feet again, to spend more than ten minutes outside, to eat a normal meal. To get back to as normal a life as you could manage.

You envy him. You wish you could have forgotten everything, too.

AZ gently knocks on the office door before letting himself in, his towering frame barely fitting through the doorway. His expression softens as he spots you curled up in the corner. Silently, he crouches down beside you, his ancient eyes filled with quiet understanding. “My friend,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Breathe.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay—he knows you aren’t. Instead, he offers you space and silence, waiting for you to speak when you’re ready.

In the lobby, L rises from his seat without thinking, taking a single step toward the office before stopping himself. He doesn’t understand why he feels compelled to go to you—only that he does.

You cling to AZ as he tries to calm you, letting out five years’ worth of feelings you thought you’d gotten over. “It’s-s n-no-not f-fair…!” you cry into his arms, breathing quick and erratic.

AZ lets you cling to him, his ancient arms surprisingly strong as he holds you. He doesn’t shush you or tell you to calm down. He simply lets you cry and spill your emotions, knowing you need the release. He gently rubs your back in a soothing manner, his voice low and gentle as he speaks. “It’s okay to feel this way,” he says softly. “You’ve bottled up a lot of pain and hurt for a long time. It’s normal to feel the way you do right now.”

“I-I thought I w-was ove-ver it by now! Over,” hic, “over h-him!” You shake your head and bury your face in your hands as you sob. “He can’t st-sta-ay h-here, AZ…!”

AZ listens quietly, his expression grave but understanding. He knew how deeply you had cared for Lysandre back then—and how much it had hurt when he chose to fire the Ultimate Weapon over you. He pats your back gently, his touch warm and reassuring. “I know, my friend,” he replies softly. “I know it’s difficult to see him after everything that’s happened, but… he doesn’t remember any of it. He’s blissfully unaware of your history together. And he’s not the same man he was then.”

“I d-don’t care!” You shake your head again. “If he really doesn’t rem-ember, then I can’t get a-any closu-sure! Even if he apologi-izes, it’ll me-ean nothing!”

AZ grimaces, understanding the frustration and pain in your voice. He’d seen the way you reacted to seeing Lysandre in the hotel lobby—the way color drained from your face, your eyes went wide with shock and disbelief, the way your hands shook and your knees went weak. Five years of healing work, undone in an instant, just from the sight of a man who now has no memory of who you are or what you meant to each other. AZ rubs your back in a soothing circle. “What would give you closure then?”

“I… I-I don’t kno-ow. Him remembering everything? Telling me what we had wasn’t…” You trail off, interrupted by a ragged, shuddering breath. “…I can’t do this, AZ.”

You press the heels of your hands against your temples. For the past five years you’ve wondered if you’d ever get any closure—five years of nightmares and depression, of wandering in mental circles, praying and wishing for some sort of answer. Five years of mourning. Five years of coming to terms with the fact that you would never get answers. Five years of struggling with that—five years of accepting it. Only to have it thrown back in your face by the ghost of the one man who’s haunted you, who’s plagued your dreams with regret and sorrow and grief…

AZ’s heart aches listening to you, his eyes sad with understanding. He has seen the toll the events of five years ago took on you—how they shaped your life ever since.

He pulls you closer, his arms around you, almost enveloping you. “You’ve been through so much, my friend. So, so much,” he murmurs. “And you’ve been so strong for so long. It’s understandable that you’re overwhelmed now.”

He gently tucks your head against his chest. “Take a moment. Breathe.”

“I can’t—!”

AZ exhales slowly, his arms tightening slightly around you in reassurance. “Then don’t,” he says simply. “You don’t have to hold it together right now. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to think about closure or fairness or any of it. Just feel.” His voice is steady, grounding. “You’ve spent five years mourning someone who didn’t even die. Of course you’re breaking. So break. Then we’ll pick up the pieces after.”

You shake in his hold… and allow yourself to break in his arms.

Your muffled sobs can be heard from the lobby. No one knows what to do or say as their friend and mentor—always so strong and reliable and cheery—breaks down a room over. The twins glance at each other uncomfortably, shuffling awkwardly in place. Urbain rubs the back of his neck, brows furrowed with worry, while Taunie crosses her arms tightly, her expression tense. In the silence, L stands motionless—his gaze fixed on the office door, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. Something inside him twists at the sound of your muffled cries, a flicker of recognition—of guilt—burning in his chest. But he still can’t place why.

AZ doesn’t rush you. He lets you sob into his coat, his large hand resting gently on your head, shielding you from the world—if only for a moment. “Whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs, “we’ll figure this out. Together.”

Outside, the afternoon sun casts long shadows across the hotel floor. And for the first time in five years, you let yourself truly grieve. Not for him. For yourself. For all the time you lost dedicating it to him. Someone who didn't even deserve it-not because of his actions, but because he was still alive this entire goddamn time. He stole your heart. He stole your mortality. And even after he disappeared...he stole your time, your sleep, your life. 

And now he looks at you like he would a stranger on the street.

Blank. Empty. Void of any meaning to him.

Back in the lobby, the twins stand awkwardly near the stranger, torn between duty to you as their friend and AZ as their keeper. “…Ah…L?” Urbain finally chuckles awkwardly. “Maybe, ah… Taunie and I could help you with… whatever you came here for…?”

L’s gaze lingers on the office door for another moment before he finally turns his attention back to Urbain. His expression is unreadable—but there’s something unsettled in his eyes. “Yes,” he says quietly. “That would be… appreciated.”

Taunie nods briskly, eager to diffuse the tension in the air. “Right! Let’s, uh—” She gestures toward the seating area. “Let’s get you sorted so you don’t have to—uh—” She stops herself awkwardly.

Urbain shoots her a look before clearing his throat. “What my sister means is… we’ll handle whatever you need!” He forces a smile, though his eyes keep darting toward the office door.

L nods stiffly, following them—but not before casting one last glance back. Somewhere, deep in his fractured memory, a voice whispers: You did this.

“Right, so, ah… what… exactly did you come here for…?” Urbain asks, hesitantly.

L takes a seat on one of the couches, the twins sitting across from him. “I have a bit of an odd request,” he admits, his gaze flicking between them. “And it may sound… strange. But it’s quite important.”

Urbain leans forward slightly. “We’re listening.”

“I am in search of the trainer that’s earned the attention of Zygarde.”

He looks back to the closed office door, where your muffled sobs have died down—just slightly. “…I believe it is them.”

Urbain exchanges a look with his sister. Taunie raises an eyebrow. “Zygarde… you mean the protector of the Kalos region?” she clarifies. “You’re looking for the trainer who’s earned its attention? And you think it’s… them?” She gestures toward the office. “But that would mean—”

“Allow me to properly explain.” L gestures toward the seating area, and a Pokémon suddenly stands where there hadn’t been one two minutes ago. On the coffee table stands a green-and-black, doglike creature—its eyes pure white. “This is Zygarde—a Pokémon who defends the order of things. Surely you sense it as well: the disturbance that threatens order in Lumiose. Mega Crystals are erupting all over the city… this strange force, Mega Power, has emerged… and wild Pokémon are succumbing to Rogue Mega Evolution.”

He pauses, gaze flicking to the office door. “It seems Zygarde has battled them, and since then, it appears it has decided…” “It’s chosen them.”

The twins’ eyes widen in surprise as they take in the sight of Zygarde, appearing out of nowhere and standing on the coffee table like it owns the place. They exchange another quick glance, curiosity and confusion growing by the second. “Mega Evolution… Rogue Mega Evolution…” Urbain mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

Taunie leans forward, eyeing the legendary Pokémon carefully. “You seem certain of all this,” she says, voice wary, curiosity piqued.

“You two have seen the effects of Rogue Mega Evolution yourselves, yes?” L asks. “You fought the Rogue Mega Absol alongside them. That is my understanding, at least.”

“Yes, we have,” Urbain confirms. “The Rogue Mega Absol… it was unlike any Mega Evolution we’ve ever seen. It was wild. Aggressive. Out of control…”

He trails off, gaze drifting to the closed office door where you’re still hiding.

“You’re saying… they have something to do with this?” Taunie asks, voice tinged with worry and disbelief.

“I know you are not part of the problem, but rather the solution,” L says, shaking his head. “However, that is the extent of my knowledge. All I know is that Zygarde has taken notice of—and interest in—them.” He looks to the Pokémon on the coffee table. “Zygarde is the one who led me here, after all.”

Both twins’ gazes turn toward the legendary Pokémon. Their expressions are a mix of awe and concern. “Led you here…” Urbain murmurs.

Taunie’s eyes narrow as she studies Zygarde, thinking hard. “But if Zygarde has taken notice of them, why isn’t it out there dealing with the Mega Power and Rogue Mega Evolution itself?” she asks, turning her gaze back toward L.

“Zygarde,” L answers, “while an admirable Pokémon, is not at its full power. This is its ten-percent form. From my understanding, however, even within its one-hundred-percent form, it will need the assistance, strength, and guidance of a strong trainer in order to aptly apply its power. It is the master of balance—it knows its place and its time.”

Taunie nods slowly, piecing it together. “So… they would be that trainer?” she asks, glancing toward the office door.

Urbain frowns slightly. “But they just… collapsed the moment they saw him,” he points out. “How are they supposed to help if—” He trails off, realizing how insensitive that sounds.

Taunie shoots him a glare before turning back to L. “What exactly are you supposed to do?”

“…I will continue my own mission, collecting the Zygarde Cells, as Zygarde has commanded me. I…”

His hand tightens into a fist at his side.

“…I will not show my face when it is not necessary to do so. However, I am Zygarde’s chosen mouthpiece, for now. I travel with it to relay its wishes. I cannot control if it asks me to attend it in your presence. In truth…”

He looks at the office door again, some foreign sadness tugging at his heart. Even though his mind does not remember you, his soul knows seeing you upset… isn’t natural. It’s wrong.

“…I do not know what sins you hold against me. I do not know how I have wronged you.”

He doesn’t like it. He wants to fix it.

“…But whatever it is… I would like to amend it.”

He can only hope you can hear him from where you’re curled up in the office, crying yourself to exhaustion.

Urbain and Taunie watch L as he speaks, taking in his words and the complicated emotions on his face. They exchange a glance, expressions filled with surprise and sympathy.

Urbain speaks up, voice softer now, a hint of understanding in his gaze. “You’re saying… you don’t remember what you did to them, but you want to make things right with them?”

L simply nods.

Taunie cocks her head, eyes narrowed as she assesses him. “And you have no idea what you did that hurt them so much?”

Urbain glances between L and the office door. “They’re… a kind person,” he says thoughtfully. “They’re strong, reliable, and they care a lot about others. For them to be so upset by your presence, something serious must have happened.”

“I understand that,” L muses softly, closing his eyes as he thinks. “I do not think Zygarde would actively pursue someone who wasn’t kind at heart—someone who yearns to help. I cannot fully express with words the… extent of the regret I feel when I look at them or think of their face… but I wish to find some way to make amends.”

Urbain nods, sympathetic. Taunie, on the other hand, isn’t quite convinced. She studies L’s face, searching for any hint of deception. “You say you regret not being able to remember what you did, but how can you regret something you don’t recall?” she presses, skepticism lacing her tone.

Urbain shoots her a warning look, but Taunie ignores him.

“…I don’t fully know myself,” he admits quietly. “All I know is that I do. Not knowing what I’ve done before… the only thing I can do now is try to show them I am not the man who hurt them. Not anymore.”

Urbain and Taunie exchange a glance, both clearly touched by his honesty. Urbain’s gaze softens into a small smile; Taunie still looks torn between suspicion and empathy.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Urbain says, nodding. “But you need to understand… they aren’t just upset. They’re hurt. Deeply hurt.”

“…I know.”

Urbain nods again, expression more serious. “And they’re a strong person,” he adds. “It takes a lot to break them like this. You… you must have hurt them pretty badly.”

He pauses, weighing his next words. “Can I ask you something? It might come off as a little blunt, though…”

“You may.”

Urbain hesitates, then asks, “If you don’t even remember them… why does their pain affect you this much? Isn’t that… odd?”

Taunie glances at her brother, silently agreeing. L doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers curl—tightening into fists, then loosening again—as if he doesn’t understand it himself. “…I don’t know,” he admits at last, voice low. “But I feel it. Deeply.”

A silence lingers between them—heavy, unresolved.

Somewhere beyond the closed office door, you exhale—soft and shuddering—as AZ holds you close.

You truly did cry yourself to exhaustion, curled up in AZ’s arms, face hot, chest slowly rising and falling as your breathing evens out. You’ve cried all you can. Your eyes shut, and you heave a sigh, genuinely close to falling asleep.

“…I don’t know what to do, AZ.”

AZ runs his hand along your hair, a soothing, tender gesture. “That’s alright,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now.” He pauses, brow furrowing as he feels the slight trembling beneath his touch. “You need to rest, my friend. You’ve been through enough for tonight.”

“…Did… Floette ever talk to you…? After you brought her back? Did she… tell you how she felt?”

You speak like you hadn’t even heard what he said.

You know what AZ did three thousand years ago—how he built and unleashed the Ultimate Weapon to bring Floette back… but only at the cost of the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of Pokémon. How Floette left him shortly after, unable to live with the grief of the lives stolen to return hers.

But what happened in between then? In between her coming back to life, learning the truth, and leaving? How much of that time was happy? How much time was there at all?

AZ goes very still, the weight of the memory heavy in the air.

“No.” His voice is quiet, expression solemn. He shifts to sit on the edge of a chair, gaze fixed on the floor, lost in recollection.

“She… she didn’t speak to me. Not after that,” he admits at last. “Not for a very long time.”

He closes his eyes, exhales slowly.

“But… we did speak. Once.”

“…Has she told you now? After you found her? After…”

After three thousand years spent wandering, searching for her, searching for a way to atone—learning what love means to those who can’t afford to hurt others for their own happiness.

AZ exhales softly, fingers curling gently in your hair. “She has,” he murmurs. “In her own way. Not in words—but in the way she chooses to stay now.”

A pause.

“Regret is… complicated. So is forgiveness. I spent lifetimes drowning in mine. Floette…” He hesitates, weighing his words carefully. “She grieved—not just for the lives lost, but for me. She left because she couldn’t bear the guilt for me. And when she returned…” His hand stills.

“She didn’t need to say anything. I already knew.”

His voice is quiet, weary with the weight of millennia. “My friend… you know what it means to love someone who chooses destruction over you. You lived it.” His thumb brushes your temple—gentle, grounding. “But unlike me, you weren’t the one who pulled the trigger.”

You draw a shuddering breath, heart sinking—and you want to cry, but you physically can’t. “…I thought I got over him.” You sigh, hiding your face in your friend’s shoulder. “I thought I had made peace with everything. Or I was starting to. And then he just… shows up again, and I…!”

AZ holds you tighter, ancient arms cradling you like something fragile—something precious. “You did get over him,” he murmurs. “But getting over someone isn’t the same as forgetting them. And seeing him again…” He exhales slowly, voice thick with understanding. “It doesn’t erase the healing you’ve done. It just hurts. And that’s okay.” His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “You’re allowed to grieve. Even now.”

Outside the office, the twins’ hushed voices mix with the soft hum of the hotel lobby—life carrying on, unaware. But here, in this quiet corner, you are held—allowed to break, allowed to ache, allowed to feel.

“…What do I do, AZ? How can I even face him after everything he’s done? How can I sleep knowing he’s alive after I cried myself to sleep so many times grieving him? Knowing he’s out there and he doesn’t even remember me? Doesn’t have the faintest clue who I am? Doesn’t…”

Your heart clenches. You hiccup. You can’t finish.

AZ listens quietly, his heart aching in his chest. He understands the pain you’re going through—the disbelief, the heartbreak, the helplessness. “…You don’t have to face him if you’re not ready,” he murmurs, hand still stroking your hair. “And you don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re not.”

He falls silent for a moment, simply holding you as you tremble slightly. Then: “May I tell you something?”

You hum, noncommittal. AZ exhales softly, thumb brushing your temple—slow, deliberate.

“I once thought Floette was lost to me forever,” he says, voice low and steady. “Three thousand years of wandering. Three thousand years of carrying that grief—knowing she chose to leave. That she hated what I’d done.”

His fingers curl slightly in your hair.

“And yet… she came back.”

A pause.

“Not because I deserved it. Not because she forgave me. But because… she chose to.” His voice grows quieter. “You don’t owe Lysandre anything. Not forgiveness, not answers, not even acknowledgment.”

He tilts his head, meeting your bleary eyes.

“But you get to decide what happens next. That’s a question only you can answer, my friend. But for what it’s worth…”

He shrugs, offering a faint smile. “I think you’ve more than earned the right to walk away, if that’s what you want.” He pauses, expression warm in the dim lamplight. “But I think… if you truly want to face him… you’re far stronger than you realize.”

You’re interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

AZ’s gaze flickers toward it, his fingers still gentle against your hair. After a moment, he calls quietly, “Come in.”

The door opens a crack, and Urbain peeks his head in. “Uh… hi. I, uh… know you’ve got a lot going on right now, but, uh… you’ve got a guest. It’s not L. It’s who brought him here.”

AZ’s gaze sharpens at the mention of a guest, his expression turning serious. You feel yourself tense beside him, your head lifting from his shoulder. “Who is it?” he asks quietly, voice carrying an underlying tension.

“It’s, um… Zygarde.”

AZ’s brows lift slightly—less surprised than resigned. “…Ah.” His hand shifts against your back, steadying. “Well. That complicates things.”

Outside the door, Zygarde waits—patient, impassive—white eyes gleaming faintly in the dim hallway light.

“…Fine.” You stand on shaky legs and take a minute to compose yourself. You don’t care how red and puffy your eyes are. They already know you’ve been crying.

AZ stays silent, his hand slowly falling away as he watches you with quiet concern. His gaze drifts briefly to the office door, then back to you. “You don’t have to go out there,” he murmurs. “Not if you’re not ready.”

“…I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” you admit with a sigh as you start toward the door. “I can’t put it off forever.”

AZ watches you walk away, worry and understanding mixed in his eyes. Before you open the door, he speaks again—low and steady. “You’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”

There’s pride in his gaze. Respect. You’re strong—stronger than he thinks you realize. “You’ll be okay.”

“…Thanks, Zed.” You give him a weak smile before taking one last shuddering breath to steel your nerves and walk through the office door.

The lobby is dim and quiet as you step into the room. In the back, away from the windows, Zygarde stands—backlit, unmoving, white eyes gleaming faintly in the darkness. Beside it, L stands quietly, expression unreadable as he watches you approach.

Your heart lurches at the sight of him… but you tell yourself it’s not Lysandre. Not really. You greet the pair with a polite—if stiff—nod. “Zygarde,” you greet the legendary Pokémon, choosing to focus on it instead of its handler.

Zygarde dips its head in response, strange white eyes fixed on you. L watches with quiet intensity, taking in your red-rimmed eyes, your pale cheeks, the stiff yet defiant set of your jaw.

“What are you here for?” you ask, looking to L, expecting him to speak for Zygarde.

L hesitates before answering, voice steady—yet softer than before, as if tempering his tone. “Zygarde wishes to speak with you,” he says simply. “And I…” He exhales, gaze flicking down for a second before meeting yours again. “I would like to understand. If you’ll allow me.”

His tone isn’t pleading—it’s firm, resolved. But beneath it lingers something unspoken. Something desperate. Zygarde shifts beside him, tail twitching.

“…Just tell me what Zygarde wants,” you sigh, drained and exhausted.

Zygarde steps forward, movements deliberate. It looks up at you—intense, unblinking—then a deep, resonant hum vibrates from its small form. It isn’t a language you understand, but the meaning is clear:

You are needed.

L exhales, watching you carefully as he translates. “The disturbances in Lumiose—the Mega Crystals, the Rogue Mega Evolutions—they’re not natural,” he says. “They’re symptoms of something worse.”

He pauses, brows knitting.

“Zygarde believes you’re connected. That you have the ability to help restore balance.”

His gaze holds yours—searching, conflicted. “…But it also knows this isn’t fair to ask of you.”

You can’t help the bitter laugh that leaves your lips. “Story of my life." You shake your head, dismissive. “Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll see it done to the best of my ability.”

L watches you quietly, expression guarded. Despite his calm demeanor, there’s an edge in his gaze—an anger on your behalf that’s hard to explain. Zygarde hums softly, seeming satisfied. But before it can respond, L raises a hand.

“Wait,” he murmurs, tone firm. “You’re taking this in stride far too readily.”

He studies your expression. “I can see the way you look at me,” he adds. “You despise me.”

“And?” You scoff, finally looking at him again. “I’m not doing this for you.”

It’s harsh, sure… but AZ is right. You don’t owe him anything. Not after what he’s done.

L exhales sharply—as if the words sting more than he expected. For a moment, his expression flickers—something wounded, raw—before he forces it back into neutrality. “I never suggested you were,” he replies evenly. “But if you’re going to risk yourself—whether for Zygarde, for Lumiose, or for any reason—you should at least have answers.”

His jaw tightens. “…Answers I can’t give you.”

Zygarde watches you both, silent, its gaze shifting between you as if waiting.

“What are you getting at?”

L hesitates, eyes flicking briefly to Zygarde, then back to you. He lets out a soft huff.

“I’m saying,” he begins, voice low, a hint of frustration creeping in, “that you deserve the truth—about everything. But—”

He clenches his jaw, gaze fixing on yours—searching, stubborn. “I want something from you first.”

You scoff, the bitterness vile in your mouth. “Like you haven’t already taken enough from me.”

L stiffens, jaw clenching. The words are a barb—sharp, meant to hurt. He exhales again, strained.

“I want to make one thing clear,” he says, voice low. He steps forward, closing the distance—unblinking, unflinching. “…I regret my actions deeply. I am far from blind to the damage and destruction and hurt I caused. You know that better than anyone.”

“You don’t even remember me.”

His expression falters—just slightly. “…No,” he admits quietly. “I don’t.” He exhales, fingers curling briefly at his sides. “But I know you. The moment I saw you—something in me recognized you. Your anger. Your pain.” A pause. “And my own.” His gaze holds yours, unwavering. “So no. I don’t remember you. But I feel you.”

Your breath hitches, but you stand firm. Those dumb, pretty words of his—words that once made you feel loved. Like he’d put the world at your feet if you asked…

…but when it mattered, he didn’t.

He chose his mission over you.

“…Whatever apology you have for me means nothing right now,” you say, voice tight. “Until you can look me in the eye knowing exactly what you did, I don’t want your remorse or regret. I want your explanation.”

L stares at you for a long moment, then exhales sharply through his nose.

“…Fair,” he says at last, quiet and resigned.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to convince you. He just nods, accepting your terms.

“Then I’ll find those answers,” he vows. “And until then… I’ll do what I can to fix what I’ve broken.”

Zygarde hums softly beside him, as if approving.

The air is thick—heavy with unresolved words, aching history, and something unspoken between you. But for now… that’s all you can do.

“…Wait.” Your voice cuts through the heavy silence. L pauses on his way to the door. “…Before you go, I—” Your voice catches. Your heart tugs painfully in your chest. Tears sting again, even though you could’ve sworn you cried yourself dry.

“…I have a selfish request.”

L glances back, taking in your expression—red-rimmed eyes, shaking fingers, raw emotion. His gaze softens, just a fraction. “Go on,” he murmurs, voice unusually gentle. “I’m listening.”

“…It’s—it’s stupid, but…” You heave a shuddering sigh and avert your gaze, staring at the floor. “…Can I… I don’t… may I…?” You squeeze your eyes shut tight. “…Can I…” You scoff at yourself, shaking your head. “…Never mind.”

L watches you, unreadable. He notices the way you can’t quite meet his gaze—the tremor in your hands, the strain in your voice… the raw heartache in every word. Against his better judgment, he steps forward. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t push. He just waits, voice quiet but firm. “Say it.”

“No. It’s stupid—”

“Say it,” he repeats, firmer. Another step. Close enough to touch, though he restrains himself. He stares—unblinking, determined. “…Whatever it is. Say it.”

“…I just… I wanted a…” A shuddering inhale, fragile as gossamer. “…A hug.” Your voice is no longer firm and proud—just quiet and shaky. Scared. Whether of him or of what you want, you aren’t sure.

L stares at you for a long moment, taking in your shaking body, the fragility in your voice, the ache in your eyes… And he doesn’t hesitate. Not for a single second.

He steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His touch is firm, steadying, and warmth seeps through the cloth of his suit. “It’s not stupid,” he murmurs, voice low.

His jacket still smells like him.

Your shaking hands clutch at it as you let yourself fall back five years—back to the moments right before the Ultimate Weapon, right before he chose his fate, choosing to go down with his failure, to let himself die…

To the moments before that, before you even knew he was Team Flare. When he took you to cafés and museums and movies, trying to drown you in excess, only for you to insist that being himself was enough. When you laughed, happy and dangerously close to love, despite the ten years between you. When you sat under the stars, held hands, and whispered names like mantras, joining in quiet union among nature, away from mankind and its corruption. Just the one time, he promised. You deserved a finer bed than flowers. You laughed and shook your head, telling him anywhere with him was more than enough. When you embraced and slept, peaceful.

His arms still feel the same…

...and you’re crying again.

L doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t speak—just holds you, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. He can feel your trembling, the dampness of your tears soaking into his jacket, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let go. And when you clutch his sleeves—tight, desperate—he tightens his grip a fraction, pressing you closer.

Somewhere in his fractured memory—in the echoes of what he lost—this feels right.

Familiar.

Like coming home.

He exhales slowly, breath warm against your temple. “…I don’t remember,” he murmurs at last, quiet and almost apologetic. “But I feel it.”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, voice cracking against the worn fabric of his shirt. “Just… let me hear it. Your heartbeat.” Let me feel the proof that you're alive.

His breath hitches, but he obeys.

Silence falls between you, broken only by the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart beneath your ear. Strong. Alive.

And for just this moment—just this small, selfish moment—you let yourself forget.

Forget the pain.

Forget the betrayal.

Forget that this man isn’t the same one who loved you.

You just listen. And L lets you.

You don’t let yourself breathe until his arms are around you—until the steady, living proof of him presses against your cheek and the sound of his heart fills the hollow space you’ve carried for five years. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t rewrite what he chose, what he stole from you, or the centuries that stretch ahead like an open wound. But in this small, selfish moment, you allow yourself to be held without bargaining for meaning, without demanding a name for what this is. When you finally pull back, your eyes are still wet and your throat still raw, yet your spine is straighter than it was when you stepped out of the office. Zygarde watches like a judge and a compass all at once, and you understand—whatever comes next isn’t about him, not really. It’s about balance. It’s about Lumiose and the cracking order of the world, and you, stubborn as ever, choosing to stand between catastrophe and everyone who doesn’t deserve it. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, exhale once, and nod—more to yourself than to either of them—because you don’t need closure to move forward. You just need direction. And as you step away from his warmth and toward the work waiting outside the hotel doors, you realize the cruelest part isn’t that he forgot you—it’s that you didn’t. Still, you go anyway.

Because you’re needed.

Yet, within the mess of amalgamated memories was that face again. A smile was on their lips. They held his hand and pulled him along somewhere. He easily followed them, relieved to see them so happy. L's heart raced. Zygarde let out a cry. He followed, yet something was creeping into his heart.

It was in the depths of what was previously his labs that he fell to his knees. After that tourist had departed and those pitiful children he was to blame for joined them, he felt a sob wreck his throat. Emotions hit him harshly. Memories of that day five years ago. His panic at how his lover could not be found. It was too late to postpone anything, and another aid of his plan failing were the grunts he sent out to find them.

Lysandre closed his eye.

~

Life had been difficult in the five years following the incident. Even when proving your lack of any place in Team Flare besides what documents might have claimed, people still assumed that you were lying. Though, that really only seemed logical.

How could you have been romantically entangled with the late leader of the group and not be uninvolved? If you were in their place, you would assume similarly. Yet, the harshness you faced was nigh unbearable. You had been accosted in the streets many times and nearly rejected from staying in any place within Kalos. It was painful. Especially when the region was still your home, and you wished to make amends for what had happened. Your place seemed to with other listless associates of Flare. A certain star trainer especially listened to your plight with a gentle smile, and Sycamore made arrangements so you had a place to live. The kindness of others is what aided you in the worst of times.

And, now, you found yourself in yet another situation.

Shopping at night often proved best, but it currently proved quite the opposite.

A man with a grim expression had trapped you in a lone alleyway within Lumiose. You tried your best to politely de-escalate the tense happening, but he seemed immune to anything you said. He was eerily silent until he revealed a blade. You desperately tried to find a way out from the alley, while still foolishly attempting to rationalise. The sharp edge pressed to your neck. Your eyes were wide.

“Your stupid group brainwashed my daughter,” he hissed, “She put herself in debt to join and then was arrested!” You squeezed one eye close as pain shot up from where the knife laid against you. Trying to claim it was not your fault would make things worse, and you felt like there was nothing you could say. It seemed your end would be here.

That was, until a loud sound echoed out through the alleyway. The man dropped the blade to cover his ears, and you took the momentary chaos to run. A Noivern stood at the end of the alleyway. The trainer stood behind it. A hood obscured their face. You panicked as the man seemingly chased after you, having recovered. Before he could even lay another hand on you, the trainer caught his wrist and twisted it until he dropped the weapon again.

“That piece of shit was with Flare,” he hissed at them, “They deserve this!”

“… Such filth,” the voice was deep and held authority, “Do you think attacking them will give you what you want?” The man's eyes went wide. “Leave them,” he kicked the knife away and his Noivern held it in its mouth. The man nearly doubled over when the trainer released his wrist. His feet echoed out in the night air as he ran away from the situation he had created. You blinked a few times.

Approaching to thank the trainer, you felt yourself freeze when he pulled back his hood. He stared into your eyes. You took an unconscious step back, nearly in denial. His hand was trembling as it reached for your own. It held a familiar warmth. A call of your name, almost like a prayer, left you stricken. Fingers interlocked with yours. A name you had not spoken in years left your lips.

“I remembered that I promised to protect you in all that you do,” Lysandre spoke softly, “You don't need to hesitate any longer. I will not leave you alone again.”

The emblem of Flare printed onto a rug beneath the desk and waiting chair. Many files sat on shelves. You had never expected to see this place again. Glancing at the entrance behind you, you saw the ring holding the exit open. Should you want to leave, you could. It took some effort to force yourself to move, but you took a few steps across the room. Lysandre's office. It was frozen exactly as you remembered it. Your hand reached for the shelf, a particular file. One you had read and found yourself in shock years ago now.

The door to the office opened just as you grasped it. Whipping your head in the direction of the sound, you saw him. The Lysandre that you had known. Bright orange hair fanned out like flames. His expression was tense until he saw you. It softened, much to your confusion. “My love,” his voice was low, “There you are.” He brought his arms around your waist before you could react and pulled you into him. His warmth instantly spread to you. The scent of his cologne stung your nose. Something so oddly comforting.

“I was distressed when my grunts reported your disappearance during the strange incident with that Giovanni,” his words made no sense, “I see now that you were just here, weren't you? You must have been waiting on my return… I apologise for leaving you.” The situation felt entirely alien. Giovanni? Grunts? “I could hardly declare this a beautiful, perfect world without you,” a smile on his lips paired terribly with the finger he drew along your jawline, “I'm sorry you disapproved of my methods, but I never intended to bring you in properly.” Your stomach dropped.

A question nervously left your mouth – the need to ask what he meant. His burrows furrowed at your seemingly listless inquiry. “Was it so traumatic that you repressed it?” his face hovered your own, far too close, “My use of the Ultimate Weapon.” The words made you tense. “I fired it and brought in a world of beauty… I must not think of the sacrifices made.” You felt sick. This was certainly a nightmare – one you had watched too many times after the event five years ago. He held you tighter to him, feeling all too real.

“You fool!” a voice boomed. Lysandre tensed and shot his head to look behind. You tilted your head to see who was there. Your Lysandre. His eye was open in shock, the other closed. The orange-haired man turned to face what seemed to be a version of himself. You took the shock to free yourself entirely and rush to his side. A gentle, protective hold followed. “I am sorry you have to listen to these words again,” his voice was a whisper, something for only you to hear.

“What is this…?” the boss of Team Flare seemed unable to process this, “Who are you!? Is this the illusion of Zoroark—?!” The words he spoke were silenced by your Lysandre forcing himself to stand tall with the weary, weathered expression he wore.

“… We seem to be opposite paths,” his gaze took in the office with a familiarity that reflected the return of his memories, “You, who succeeded, and I, who failed.” You wished to proclaim your belief that the opposite was true, but it would do little to soothe the situation.

“You mean to say, a reality where my plans failed…” the orange-haired man blinked a few times, “What has become of you? Why are you dressed in such attire—” His eyes focused on the white hair atop his counterpart's head? “… Aged. You resemble that man.”

“I was, too, a fool,” Lysandre closed his eye, “I was so enraged by my failure that I turned the weapon on myself – gifting myself over three thousand years of agony on this planet.” The Team Flare boss stood in shock. You would protest the agony statement. He would be unwilling to discuss it, you knew. “But I see now, I will better this world by means that will not cause great sacrifice,” his arm tightened around you, “I have made too many suffer already.” Your hand pressed gently to his chest.

“You still are a fool,” the younger man hissed, “This world will not change for the better. Did you forget all that we tried!? Everything we did always led to the same conclusion – this was the only way to save this world.” You knew it was pointless to argue, and Lysandre did, too. Both of you glanced at one another, seeing the past that would continue to haunt you. Many arguments and pointless debates. He opened both of his eyes.

“I suppose… that is why your partner has fled,” Lysandre glanced at you, “They were unable to bear the weight of what you wished to do and joined themself among the sacrificed.” Blue eyes went wide in response to those words.

“No,” he hissed, “I secured them—”

“They escaped,” Lysandre's voice held finality, “Your perfect world does not include them.” You realised that he had slowly been moving you both towards the portal. “You must be in denial,” he spoke again, “I know I had been. When did that grunt tell you they were missing?”

“Shut your mouth,” his counterpart shouted and reached for you. Lysandre clumsily pushed you into the portal, parting you from the reach of him. Moments passed while you say in near shock on the pavement. Then, Lysandre emerged from the portal with exhaustion on his face.

“… He will suffer in a way different than I,” his gaze was overcast. You shook your head. The distortion faded. Shifting onto your feet, you held on to his hand and pressed to your chest. A small smile grew on his lips. “I suppose, I must value my time with you ever more,” he embraced you tightly, “I should have listened to you.”