[ A/N: Song in media is Ikanaide, a Vocaloid song. The English cover featured is by Lizz, a YT singer. Dedicated to Risa-White because Ikanaide means don't go and also dedicated to the person who wrote the oneshot "ricochet" for knb because its inspired off this so much and it took me ages just to make sure its not too similar criess

happy mid-autumn festival, tho! ]

℘

the mid-autumn festival represents and symbolises "reunion"

"I'm sorry, Meowstic—but it's for the best. I'm too weak of a trainer for you. You'd be better off if you went with another trainer."

I can hear every break in my voice, every crack that signifies that I am not qualified to stop you—a talented Pokemon—from earning your place in the world—and the truth is burnt into the air as if an iron has left its mark, laying the bare truth in the open where it is fragile; vulnerable, and the silence between us is almost enough to shatter me.

Why would you care? You never thought I was good enough for you—and it should stay that way. The team I've built could never support you—all stars must shoot forward in life sometime, and they must find suitable accompaniment—they cannot choose to stay in mortal hands any longer.

And I assume that you know what's best for you too—because as my hand closes around your Pokeball, fingers sliding to the button to make the fateful decision—you turn away, small fists clenching as you hiss. Could you not bear to see my face, smiling through the agony and trying to pretend that nothing'll change?

I watch you disappear into the wilderness, and my mouth moves before my heart does as I see that you have made the right choice.

A tiny, shattered grin forms. "Thank you."

(I am thankful for the mouthed words left unsaid, unshed against the angry silence glaring at me through the bitterness of the first night alone without you—oh, please don't leave me.)

℘

I do not expect us to meet again.

After all, I can only dream of the great places you must be going to—I, meanwhile, have remained behind like a lantern missing its light—because no one will be there to pick up a meaningless paper object and walk with it.

I do not dare to move on. After many calls of worry and sympathy—telling me to return home, telling me to press on—I make my eventual decision to remain in Geosenge, and several weeks had brought me back to a shaky start. An old couple running a small business takes pity on me, and I find myself starting to bounce back up, as if someone was trying to fix my light and it was working.

Perhaps I won't become one of those exquisite lanterns that people carry around during the Mid-Autumn festival, but I am contented with being one that's simply for decoration—like simple pleasures in life, a simple patch-up is needed—a bandage over my heart here, a plaster there—to get the light to work again.

It is the first step towards leaving the past behind and coming to terms with the fact that I will not see you again, but I am building the bridge with my own two hands, and I am confident that I will be able to cross it.

So it is unexpected that I find my hard work to forget your face—all your queer expressions and our countless conversations under the starry skies at night—crumbling down in an instant. The bridge is gone in an instant, and I should have known that it takes more than a simple dressing to fix the wound.

At first, I stare. It's the only action I seem capable of, and it hurts me because I don't know what to feel or what to do—should I feel unhappy that all my efforts have gone to waste? Should I leave you there in the rain to fade into the monochrome background as just an insignificant corpse? Or should I walk over even though it hurts so damn much—

...I end up going against my better judgement, because I recall that my weak mind and weak heart—the fact that I am weak in general—has led to our separation in the first place, and I am no stranger to being a fool.

The silence is punctuated by the splash of rain against the asphalt ground. The numbness is ruined by the warm, awful feeling of your crimson blood against my trembling hands. And the grey around me is shattered by the colour that your fur is tainted with, bright and glaring against Geosenge's muted hues and bringing bile to the tip of my tongue.

I run, heart pounding and watering eyes well masqueraded within the shelter of the rain—and I burst into the Pokemon Center at eleven at night, soaking wet and cradling you with whatever strength I have left. Blood has mixed with the toxic droplets and has dyed most of my shirt and wrists an ugly cardinal.

They rush from where they are seated. Take you away from me, and usher me somewhere else to get cleaned up. Bring you into the operating room as fast as they can.

(And the news hits much harder than any ten-tonne truck you could ever throw at me. You sleep for a long time, refusing to show me these amber irises of yours. I become little more than an android that does nothing but eat, drink, shit and sleep—and the concerned looks my employers shoot me grow.

One time, I come across a lantern dangling from a branch, a reminder that the festival was approaching—and the glow is soft and golden and far too bright against the horrors of the world. I resist the urge to rip it off its so-called pedestal—resist the urge to crumple the object and burn it until it no longer lives in this world.)

℘

You wake up a month later, blank eyes glaring at me with the look a frightened child would give me—but I suppose that it is only fair.

I can only respond with a smile when you refer to me as someone who I'm not. Ah, it seems that you only remember your new trainer. I wasn't worthy of your respect after all—and that in itself seems like a snake that's curling up in my chest with a mocking tone.

"Where am I?" you demand, and I do not see you as the strong Pokemon who I needed to let go—I see you as an injured Fletchling that needs help, and I am willing to spend as long as it takes to give you that support.

The voice that comes out does not seem to match my own. A sideways smile splits my face like a knife carving a curve into an onion—it is an expression that brings tears to my eyes—tears that I cannot let fall. "The hospital," I reply, and my fingers drum against the side of the bed. "You're lucky."

I watch you glance around, as if trying to match up my words with your reality. A few long moments pass before you decide to speak—and your voice is wary. "Why?" you question, "Why? How long have I been here?"

A nervous shift occurs, and I hide the fumbling of my words with such ease that one would think I'm used to it. "Why do you ask?" I murmur. "Just focus on recovering."

"It's getting cold." Your observation is simple; confused, and you glance out of the window like a petulant child.

"It's September, Meowstic."

"That's impossible." The feline frowns as she stares at me with those large amber optics of hers. "I definitely remember the date. It's April."

℘

Nurse Joy tells me that you can't do this. That it would be better to let them handle things and tell the patient the truth. That this is only hurting me and that you'd probably never remember my name.

She frowns, and her voice is firm as she speaks—tells me that the damage done to your head is irreversible and that you would be dead within two years. "If you don't want it to hurt so much, you should stop coming."

Her voice holds no venom—yet, I can't listen. Her words make me dizzy.

You're not helping anyone, she says, please just stop.

I ignore her. Tell her that I'll be back at the same time tomorrow, and walk off before she can say anything else. I'm more afraid then anything else—I find a twisted form of pleasure in this. At least this way, you will never leave me. You will never leave my side, and if it means casting my identity aside, it's fine.

Everything is fine, I tell myself. As long as I get to see you and assure myself that you're doing fine, everything will be fine. As long as I can keep you in your happy delusion, I'll be happy.

The elderly couple looks past our relationship as employer and employee—they have always treated me as some sort of foster child. The frowns on they face hurt me—it's as if I'm doing something wrong—but I don't listen to them. They don't understand.

I stay in their house as usual, but the hours that I spend in the room—the minutes and seconds I waste away typing away at my laptop, fingers aching as I look up every single piece of information there is to know about you and your previous owners; study each little characteristic and detail about their personality so that I can refine my mimicking down to the smallest thing.

A laugh escapes my mouth as I walk past the lantern again, the same one that hangs on the branch of a tree near the hospital—and for once, I think that the festival is what I need—because it brings hopes of reunion, and I got to reunite with you on that day, didn't I?

℘

"You're back," you note, and I nod with a smile—and I thank Arceus that you pay no mind to the dark bags hanging below my eyes. "How's everyone else doing...? You know, your friends? The rest of the team?"

I recount facts that I have learnt from a computer's screen and not ones from my own memories. The lies pile on as I speak in a gentle tone.

"The Pokemon are doing fine—they're all worried for you, y'know. Min's the favourite to win in the upcoming Kalos League. I think Eri quit battling—he's found a new interest in cooking, apparently, and he plans to settle down in Unova."

"I see." Your voice is even. "Tell Min that I wish him luck. Sorry for making you stay here—you could be at the League too, but—"

"That's fine. You're my Pokemon. I have no intention of leaving you."

"Ah...then, thank you."

℘

(The old man voices his worries, telling me that I seem like a completely different person now—and somehow, that doesn't bother me. It tells me that my facade is working. Nurse Joy can do nothing but give me fleeting looks of disapproval as I emerge from the hallways each day.

I manage to steal a glance in the mirror—and my appearance startles me. I look nothing like I remember—a year ago, I was still vulnerable, yes, but the darkness shadowing my eyes and the cheekbones protruding far too much to be healthy—it startles me.

I don't have the heart to admit that this is pointless. That you will spend the rest of the next year—because time is so short and so many months have already passed—knowing me by a different name.

Yet, I inject as much of myself as I can into these sentences—if I even have the right to label "myself" with that name. A crack shows here and there, and I find myself starting to believe that you can see straight through my act.

Because I lack substance. I lack the heart that I think I have fooled you into speaking too, and I know that the act will never be enough.

So why are you still talking to a stranger? Why are you talking to someone you don't even know—why do you still smile and hold such a casual conversation with me each day?

I press on, pretending to think that you are still under the lie—because I know that I'll crumble to pieces if I don't delude myself—crumble in such a way that my heart can't be pieced together ever again. The twinkling eyes and lopsided smiles continue, and I wonder just what sort of a reunion this is.)

℘

"Do you know what happened to me? What made me end up here?"

No response. Absolute silence lifted from my parted lips.

"Why aren't you speaking?"

I remain silent. I don't want to tell you of the pressure that made you snap—the depression that your trainer brought upon you simply because I cast you aside, believing that it was for the better good—and your rushed attempt to run away and end everything.

It would shatter you—and it would shatter me as well.

"You're crying. Are you OK...?"

My mouth remains closed, and I wipe away my tears with a violent action. Pathetic. I'd been found out—I had heard the unasked question of who are you drift between us as we sat in silence.

"Hey—"

"Shut up!"

A broken scream emerges, and I finally lift my gaze to meet her shocked eyes. My voice is far too loud for my own eyes—and I glare at her as I collapse, my anger and sadness and pure desperation all tied together into a single yell.

"Shut up," I repeat, fingers lacing themselves my long, frazzled hair—I hadn't bothered to cut it in a while—and I stagger backwards. "Just shut up! You don't know anything—you shouldn't—"

A sob escapes and I storm out, and my subconscious notes that the lantern has spoilt—as if it is a broken recollection of the upcoming fete. There is no golden glow to bathe in; no light to hide the pit of darkness and pain waiting behind.

I don't come for three weeks after the incident.

℘

"Sorry about the outburst."

"....it's fine..."

I take note of your tired voice, and notice that you've just awoken—and I hurry to retread back and cover up my mistake. "Have I disturbed your sleep? I can always leave."

"Ah, that's fine."

"You were sleeping the last time I came here too," I mutter, reaching out a hand and petting your soft fur. "Are you sure?"

"Yes—I've just been so tired nowadays."

I keep silent. You look as if you have something more to say.

"It's a pain to wake up now. I think you're the only thing keeping me afloat right now, y'know."

"Please don't speak like that."

"Oh. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to sound so sombre. All I meant to say was thank you."

"..."

℘

You pass away not long after that, silently, in the dimming light of the lanterns.

It fell on the very day of the festival. Nurse Joy had called me—told me to take you somewhere happier to spend your final moments—and I had carried you to a bench underneath the tree, watching your smile as you looked up at the string of lights now adorning the branches.

You knew. You knew that, after the shouting and the meltdown, I hadn't bothered to keep up the facade. 

What had gone wrong from the beginning? 

We've been like two metronomes side by side—but your tempo kept on increasing and we were out of sync—and now that your battery's flatlined, you've come to a halt, and I can just keep on ticking, not knowing what more I can do.

I'm the only one attending your funeral—because when we were younger you jokingly said that you wanted to have a funeral when you were dead, even if no one could come to attend.

My employers come by to pay their respects, exchanging a few words of comfort with me—but they soon disappear, leaving me alone to seek solace in the cruel reality and sit alone in front of your smiling picture.

On the very last day, someone from the hospital visits me. I recognise it as the nurse—her smile is small, and her pink hair is a nuisance against the monochrome themes—it almost seems like a sign of disrespect. 

I can only turn my head to look at her.

"She remembered something a few days before, I think." Her voice is soft as she speaks, and I grip at the back of the plastic of the chair I sit on. "She told me to tell you that she's sorry—and thank you for everything."

A long silence passes. I don't know if I am fine hearing this—why is she telling me this now?

"Thank you," The words fight their way up to my lips without my permission or control, and I respond.

℘

[ ???

ikanaide]