#trainer opal

Because he was Bede.

Bede who had gone through hell and back. Bede who had been cast aside like a stray Yamper. Bede who knew emotions in a cold world would only make him weak and susceptible to the cruelties all around him.

“My child,” Opal croaks, “you’ve come so far. Thank you for giving this old hag another 12 years.”

12 years.

12 of the best years he could say he had.

“Of course, Ms. Opal,” Bede pronounces slowly, feeling the constriction in his throat beginning to form, his hand squeezes hers back. Hot liquid beginning to pepper on his cheeks.

She was Opal: Star of Ballonlea’s theater scene, truly the most elegant fairy-type gym leader. She needed no tears to be remembered by—except for those brought forward by her performance.

“Dry those tears up now.” It’s stern and sharp, like her critiques in the theater, yet Bede simply stifles a laugh.

“They’re for your performance of a lifetime, Ms. Opal.”

Enough to crack her own smile in response. The sound of a kettle whistling brings their attention towards the door. A quiet gasp only followed by Gloria’s figure rushing from the table back to the kitchen.

“I’m terribly heartbroken I didn’t get to see children out of you though, Bede,” it’s said in a knowing tone, his affections for their house guest anything but a secret. One that Opal had been pushing for him to pursue for years--only for her to state it once more on her deathbed.

And this time he wouldn’t scoff and brush off the comment.

“I’ll work on that, promise.”

--

Bede wasn’t new to loss.

The eulogy droning on in the background. Opal’s grand feats. Her accomplishments. Her heart, her spirit, her whole being.

Bede’s hand clasping tighter and more desperately on the handle of the umbrella. An attempt to solidify himself, to not cry, to focus on the pitter patter of the rain tapping on the fabric instead of the sobs of others.

Another thing in his life to good to be true. Quiet musings that maybe he could’ve been a better grandson. Looked after her more. Helped her even more than he could.

Was he even what she wanted?

Did he ever make her proud?

The world shouldn’t have taken Opal.

He could feel his breathing growing shallow. The same lump in his throat suffocating him. His vision becoming blurry, his cheeks growing hot--until he feels warmth touch his white knuckles. Bleary, concerned, chocolate eyes peering up at him as he finds himself letting go.

He’s not sure how long he sobbed into the Champion’s shoulder.

Rain soaking both of them as the umbrella falls, yet, she never utter a complaint. Soft coos and whispers urging him to cry it all out. Her own whimpers audible with their distance. Her hand never ceasing its caresses across his back. Her warmth never fading.

The sun broke through the rain when he was done.

--

The cottage felt quiet.

Nothing eery, or disagreeable. Just lonely. Calm. The sunset peering in through the lacy curtains basking everything in an orange hue.

It surprises him when a heavy blanket is draped around his shoulders. Violet eyes peering up for the first time that day to look up at Gloria. She had changed out of her rain soaked dress, tendrils of her hair sticking to her face. A part of him wanted to scold her--to dry her hair, lest she wanted to get a cold, but words fail him. It’s at his pause he feels her fingers gently bring his hands over the the steaming cup of tea in her hands. Opal’s favorite.

Gloria’s always been the quieter companion of their friend group. Saying so much with a simple glance or lift of her lips. It was easy for him to understand her--and just as easy for her about him.

And right now she knew he needed company.

He didn’t need to say it, eyes flickering to the duffle strewn on the chair across the room, attention shifting when he feels the couch give way to her weight; now noticing how her arms were outstretched and welcoming him.

He gives in, remembering his promise to Opal.