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Kieran doesn’t know what to think.
The sun is setting; it’s a gorgeous blend of pink and yellow hues like it usually is in Kitakami, one of those sunsets that he’d outstretch his hands toward as a kid, the sun little more than a sinking star betwixt his palms. It doesn’t feel like a fitting end to the weeks of mayhem that have plagued his life, albeit maybe he needs to quit holding out hope for grand, fairytale endings already.
When he was younger, he was consumed by stories, by oral retellings and paper promises alike of a better life, of friends that would treasure him, and a Pokémon who he thought would solve every problem he’d ever had. He wasn’t strong enough but Ogerpon is. He wasn’t strong enough but if he could’ve just befriended her, wielded her power alongside his… it’s an entirely useless string of thought to have. He is strong enough and Ogerpon still isn’t his. He is strong enough now to recognize that Ogerpon is not the salvation he was seeking, never was. Florian, however, might be the closest thing to a religion Kieran will ever believe in.
He is smart enough to recognize that Florian will never be his. That doesn’t stop him from fumbling his words when Florian’s in the vicinity nor the shaking hands and the red flush he can’t quite get under control, but it’s… it has to be enough. Kieran, for once, can’t get what he wants through sheer brute force, and he has to live with that. People like him don’t get (deserve) fairytale endings—they don’t get the Pokémon; they don’t get the boy. He wishes though, sometimes, entirely fruitlessly, that he could be Florian’s world too. He wishes on supernovas for Florian to smile at him—more specifically, the one that crinkles his eyes in the corners and lights up every soft feature on his face, the one he hasn’t ever seen aimed at him until Kieran suggested making amends after their trip to Area Zero and promptly short-circuited over.
Florian walks a little ways ahead up the beaten path toward Mossui Town, arm hooked at the elbow with Arven’s. The pit in his stomach distends as he crunches yet another stick beneath his sneaker, ten paces behind Florian’s friends, an afterthought.
When Kieran was feeling hopeful and optimistic, maybe a little romantic though he hadn’t realized it all those months ago, he had started drawing Florian. Sketches of Florian facing off against his sister, backlit by the xanthous rays of sunlight filtering through the brush. Sketches of him wandering toward the next signpost while Kieran had hid in bushes and shrubs, sketches of him tending to his Pokémon after inevitably getting distracted battling wild Pokémon, sketches of him eating and drinking and laughing and loving and being alive, right up until he’d mindlessly filled the entire book with nothing but Florian. He should’ve burned that notebook (he entertained the notion on moonless nights hunched over his desk, alone, always alone, with poison in his veins and the ever-present cavernous, Florian-shaped void in his heart). An unwavering part of him could never bring himself to do so, even when Florian was at the top of his black book. It sits in his third desk drawer, gathering dust, mostly because poring through it on occasion only makes his eyes sting and his lungs ache until he can't breathe. He never did figure out how to live with that void, that pointless longing embedded so deeply into him; he thinks he’d bleed out before ever getting over him.
Florian wouldn’t feel remotely the same as him, he assumes. Not everyone loves as obsessively as he does.
“Hi,” says a voice he knows as well as his own. Kieran glances up, surprised. “What’re you doing all the way back here?”
Arven is now linked at the arm with Penny, the former leaning down slightly to hear her, and Nemona has ditched them—not entirely out of the ordinary for her according to everyone else—to engage a trainer in battle that he feels terrible for. “Walking…?”
“Well, yeah,” says Florian with a light chuckle. Kieran has the absurd urge to bottle that laugh up, keep it on a shelf with the rest of his trophies to raise his spirits on bad days. “But you’ve been pretty far behind us. Not going back to old habits, are you?”
“No,” replies Kieran. Is he? “I…” I don’t want to be a fifth wheel. I want you all to myself and it’s killing me to see you adore people who aren’t me. “I guess I didn’t realize.”
“Come on, then,” he says, and he raises his arm in a manner that suggests he’s going to throw it around Kieran’s shoulders, but he falters at the last second. Kieran finds himself mourning a loss he never experienced, wondering with a heavy heart what it would feel like to gain the privilege of his touch. Arven, Penny, and Nemona have earned that privilege so effortlessly. Why not him? He knows why.
“You go ahead. I don’t really…” Kieran trails off, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. He can see Florian’s look of concern in his peripheral vision, and it makes him want to dissipate into the frigid evening air, sink beneath the clouds like the sun. Florian has always known how to reduce Kieran to his most vulnerable state without saying anything at all. A memory of fireworks and candy apples and thoughtful, secretive smiles pops up—always at the worst of times, which is all the time lately.
To his shock, Florian tugs him into his side, all vibrant warmth and surprising solidity he supposes can only result from roaming the outdoors for months on end. Kieran nearly topples them both, his pulse ratcheting up, but Florian catches him, secures an arm around his waist like he weighs nothing. When he speaks, it’s a low rumble in Kieran’s chest. “I was scared too, y’know. That we wouldn’t be able to snap them out of it.”
For a moment, Kieran considers correcting him—Pecharunt and its antics have been the furthest thing from his mind for the past ten minutes but the alternative of confessing that Florian’s been setting up shop in every crevice of his brain keeps him silent. “Yeah, but everythin’ worked out in the end.” Because you came back, he thinks but doesn’t add.
“Exactly. I’m sure that Carmine is going to be all right. Your grandparents too.”
“Mhm,” he hums, too frazzled by the arm around his waist and the strangely sweet smell of lavender and vanilla that always seems to halo Florian.
“Is there something else bothering you?” Florian asks, adopting a gentler tone, like a caress that Kieran wants to curl up in. Florian slides his hand up his side slowly, gently, before he slings his arm around his shoulders like he’d wanted to do originally. It sparks a trail of goosebumps in Florian’s wake, scrambles Kieran’s brain a little. “Area Zero?”
It takes Kieran an embarrassingly long time to reply—his synapses are all firing Florian, Florian, Florian in full force and he’s preoccupied with not giving into the urge to hide his face in his neck, drunk off lavender and vanilla and the dizzying rush of wanting someone he can’t have. “Um, no,” he says, too high-pitched.
“I find that hard to believe,” says Florian with a click of his tongue. “But I won’t press you.”
“Thanks…” he mumbles. They shuffle along in silence that isn’t uncomfortable for once. Kieran never quite knows what to do with himself in quietude, too quick to overthink an action as simple as breathing or Arceus forbid, too quick to say something dumb and further alienate himself, but he doesn’t have that urge now. He’d like to be closer to him, he thinks. He’d like to work up the courage to hold his hand and swing their linked fingers back and forth like they’re children. He’d like to lead Florian past the apple orchards, past vast stretches of mountains that pierce the clouds and rolling paddy fields, and carve out a place of their own somewhere in that unyielding wilderness away from the rest of the world’s prying eyes. Kieran would take his other hand and he’d drink in the thick eyelashes that frame Florian’s impossibly dark eyes, the faint smattering of freckles on his nose that he can’t see unless he’s close, he’d part his lips the barest bit, and he’d lean in, he’d—
“Did you know that Paldea is the only region not to use Corviknight for their flying taxis?” Florian announces out of the blue once the gate to Mossui town is a looming dot on the horizon.
“Whoa, huh—w-what?” Kieran responds, distantly wondering if he missed something as he attempts to regulate his flushed face and a heartbeat that could rival the speed of light. He’s attuned to Florian’s every movement though; he knows he would’ve heard any earlier attempts at conversation. At least, he thinks he would have.
Florian spares him a sidelong glance, a twinkle in his eye. He is the universe. “It’s because they kept getting shot down by Tinkaton.”
“That pink Pokémon you have? But it’s so cute.”
“I know right? Although I won’t lie, all fairy types definitely have something sinister going on beneath their cute demeanor.”
“Y-yeah… Lacey’s Pokémon scare me more than Drayton’s…” Kieran says. He distantly wonders when Florian is going to want his arm back. He hopes never.
“Speaking of her, when I—”
“Hey!” Arven’s voice cuts in like a clap of thunder, like a hurricane sent to devastate him. “Come hang out with the rest of us.”
Florian loosens his hold—something in Kieran cracks—before he’s slipping away with an apologetic, reserved half smile, and hastening his pace. He mildly feels like he jinxed himself; he lambasts Arven internally for ripping Florian away from him. He also assumes that Arven wasn’t addressing him, so he catches up but keeps to himself, eyes glued to the grassy path beneath him, trying in vain to mask the disappointment that’s scribbled all over his entire being. For the millionth time, Kieran curses the fact that he’d had to invite Florian’s Paldean friends. If it were up to him, he would’ve only asked Florian for a return visit, but Grandma intervened and overrode him.
“We should ask him to bring his friends. Isn’t that a lovely idea, dear?” Grandma had said. “It’ll be good for you to branch out and make some more friends,” Grandpa had said. “I’m selfish and I want his attention all to myself, screw his friends,” is what Kieran should’ve replied. They’re good people, even if Nemona intimidates him, it’s just that… he is selfish. He wants Florian so badly; he can hardly breathe sometimes. It kills him to watch him rise to the tips of his toes to cup a hand around Arven’s ear, drives a stake further into his chest to watch Arven howl with laughter and ruffle Florian’s hair. It kills him to ruminate on the many, many bonding experiences Florian and his group of friends must have had, kills him to live with the fact that he wasn’t Florian’s friend first. Arceus, what he would give to be Florian’s first friend, best friend, confidante, his everything.
“Don’t know about you lot, but I’m turning in for the night; I’m tired,” announces Penny as soon as they near the community center. She waves everyone off with parting goodbyes before walking to the entrance, Arven not too far behind her with a roll of his shoulders and a promise to wake Florian up early tomorrow. Kieran assumes it must have something to do with what Florian whispered in his ear earlier.
“Wanna get in a quick battle?” He can hear Nemona asking Florian as he turns on his heel, palms sweaty, heart aching, ready to retreat to his house in defeat. He doesn’t want to stick around to hear the reply. When he closes his eyes, he can smell lavender and vanilla, lingering in his memory and his senses like a Gastly.
Florian calls his name when he’s around the corner—Kieran doesn’t particularly care for his name, but he loves how it sounds emerging from Florian’s lips—and he stops short, afraid to turn around.
“Hey, can I talk to you? Nothing bad and it’ll just be for a second,” says Florian, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
“Sure.”
“Attaboy!” Nemona cheers before Kieran can spot her bounding into the community center out of the corner of his eye, nearly running into the doors headlong before she recalls that they don’t automatically open. “Good luck!” She yells right before she disappears.
“Was she shouting at you?” Kieran questions. Florian nods and starts tugging him along by the wrist; he swallows the all too familiar swarms of Butterfree down as he lets Florian drag him over the bridge, the same one where Ogerpon had really started taking a liking to Florian, the same one that Kieran has crossed over cursing (and eventually, praising) Florian’s name countless times before. It creaks when they step off the last wooden plank, dilapidated and sorely in need of proper repair, plunging them both into shadows. The pale luster of moonlight is their only aid as Florian leads him to a small grove speckled with trees and a distinct lack of wild Pokémon.
He lets go when they near a particularly gnarled tree, its weathered branches extending in random directions, ominous in the lack of available lighting. It wouldn’t surprise Kieran if this tree is older than at least three generations of Kitakami villagers. Florian sighs, folding his arms over his chest, clearly mulling over what he’s going to open with while Kieran rocks on his heels. He hadn’t said he needed to discuss anything bad, but Kieran can’t help the inherent anxiety that accompanies someone requesting to speak to him.
“So, we’ve been friends again for a while.”
“… Yeah?” Kieran responds when it doesn’t seem as though Florian is going to follow that sentence up. His stomach is a rollercoaster of turbulence. Shit, he’s gonna say he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. Maybe he found out. How did he—
“And you probably don’t consider me yours, but I like to think you’re my best friend.”
“Oh,” says Kieran, helpless to keep the giddy grin off his face. “You’re my best friend too.” Granted, Kieran wants so much more than that, but it sparks a wildfire of warmth in his stomach regardless to hear Florian refer to him as his best friend. He’s known his Paldean friends for much longer, yet Kieran gets to hold the title of Florian’s best friend? Unprecedented.
“Right, well, you’re not going to think that after what I tell you,” says Florian, hunching his shoulders. He glances to the canopy of leaves beneath their sneakers, letting out another drained sigh. Kieran focuses on not spontaneously combusting because what does that mean? Good Arceus, he’s not leaving this conversation with his heart unscathed, is he? Florian definitely doesn’t want to be his friend anymore. Gone is any semblance of warmth he experienced for a cruel millisecond, replaced with the biting chill of the air currents whipping around them. “In case this is the last time I see you, I just want you to know that I’m rooting for you. I always am.”
“You’re scarin’ me, Florian.”
“Sorry, my point is that… uh. My—my point is that getting to know you, the real you, has been the best experience of my life. You’re a sweet guy and it makes me really happy to be able to call you my friend. Talking to you here has been the highlight of my day. And I literally wait by the mailbox when I think I’m supposed to be getting another letter from you, it’s embarrassing, Nemona actually caught me a couple of times. It never came but I never stopped hoping that—sorry, I’m getting off track. I, um, what I’m trying to say is that I like you, Kieran. Wow, that came out sounding horrible, I mean… I like you though. A lot. And I’ll stop talking now.” Florian winces, drawing in on himself. “That’s all, you can leave.”
“You like me?” Kieran asks after a few beats of resounding silence pass them by. He plays with his bangs, taps his nervous foot on the ground while Florian slowly nods, unable to look up from his shoes. “Am I just your friend?”
“That’s a… loaded question.”
“Because I’m in love with you,” Kieran rushes out in a messy tangle of words. He’s not sure if Florian even understood him. In case this is the last time he ever gets to speak those words aloud, he repeats himself, a bit quieter, more subdued, but it’s a stark relief to uncage his thoughts. He probably would have suffocated under the weight of them once Florian left again.
“You’re in love? With me?”
I love you, I love you, I love you more than the moon loves the sun, thinks Kieran. “How could I not be? You’re Florian.”
“That doesn’t—because I’m me, what does that even—" Florian grumbles, burying his blushing face in his hands. “Are you sure?”
“Uh—yeah. All I do is think ‘bout you.”
“How are you casually saying all this, oh my Arceus…” A heavy exhale. A gust of wind through the trees. Kieran steps closer, places his chilly palms on Florian’s waist like he’s always, always wanted to do. “Well, where do we go from here?”
I wanna kiss you. Transfer to Blueberry Academy with me. Say you think about me too. Be mine, be mine, bemine. “We start over? Again?”
“I think all we do is start over,” says Florian. “I’m in love with you too. That was obvious but I just wanted to say that.”
Kieran doesn’t reply, opting to lean in, and reality is so much sweeter than the countless daydreams that flit about the back of his brain. It’s all lavender and vanilla and the immense satisfaction of Florian slotting against his lips with a breathy exhale that Kieran greedily swallows. Florian, the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last thing on his mind at night. Florian, a prodigy of a boy, his North Star, all his. Kissing Florian is coming home. He kisses him again, and again, and again, in their own crevice of the world.