Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Everything has led him to this.

Five years ago, standing outside this very same venue with a sense of wonderment and pride—in himself, and in his Pokémon. The idea he once held so close to his heart that he had worked hard and earned this. That on every level, he deserved it. His father’s and his mother’s son, through and through.

They were proud of him, even though he lost. They told him so often, back then.

But he’s older now. He’s smarter and stronger and so much more talented. Back then, they promised to meet here again and prove just how far they had come. The two of them. Together. The way Kipper has always wanted them to be.

And yet he stands outside the venue at Slateport now alone. It’s only the ghostly echoes of that promise accompanying him as he takes one cemented step after another toward the entrance.

His mother and father told him they would meet him here, and they spot him immediately as he enters the venue. As they often are in contest halls, they have been cornered by reporters; but when they catch sight of Kipper, May is quick to excuse them both in order to come greet him. The cameras follow after them, and yet Kipper’s gaze is drawn farther ahead, to the registration counter. To a familiar head of blue hair.

A sigh slips between his lips, even as his father steps in front of him and cuts off his view of Hayate. His hand lands on his shoulder; within Drew’s gaze, there is something knowing which cuts through Kipper’s chest, has his hands curling into fists at his sides as if that could possibly stop them from trembling.

“We didn’t see you earlier, so we figured you still need to register, right?” May offers him a beaming smile. Whatever horrible thing within him his father sees, his mother has never given the impression she sees it herself. Kipper doubts it has evaded her notice entirely, but it is a little easier to breathe again when he turns his attention to her.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m gonna go now.”

“I can come with you,” his father says, and he tenses. Shakes his head.

“I can do it myself,” he says curtly. “I’ll just be a few minutes anyway.”

They both watch him for a moment, unspeaking, until Drew at last withdraws his hand and nods in understanding. And yet, the whole way to the registration desk, he feels their gazes boring against his back.

When the crowd parts again and he sees Hayate, though, the sensation fades away. He’s as happy and carefree as he’s ever been. The bright smile he sends all the other contestants around him tightens the searing coil in Kipper’s gut, reminds him—he feels this way about everyone. When he smiles at you like that, it doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t save his heart from fluttering when that smile does turn on him, though.

“Oh, Kip!” He tilts his head slightly as Kipper approaches, face still stretched by his effortlessly brilliant smile. “I didn’t see you come in. So, you got five ribbons too, huh? That’s great!”

Just as quickly as Kipper’s heart crawled up into his throat, it drops down into his stomach, choking him with its leaden weight. He takes in one, two, three deep breaths, and then reaches into his bag to fish out his ribbon case. He drops his gaze down to his reflection distorted by its plastic lid and says, as evenly as he can make himself, “We promised to make it here together, didn’t we?”

A pause, and then—

“Did we?” Hayate laughs. It is a sound of delight, even as it cuts clean beneath Kipper’s skin. “Well, I’m glad you made it, then!” Before Kipper can back away, to save himself from the horror of releasing the emotion tightening his throat, Hayate’s hand brushes against his where he’s gripping his ribbon case. “You’re gonna do great! Don’t be nervous. Anyway, we were just about to meet up with Gwen for some special training, so I gotta go! But I’ll see you at the prelims! Bye, Kip!”

And just like that, his hand slips away again. Just like it always does. Kipper doesn’t reach out as he goes; but even after all this time, he can’t help the way his hand twitches with the desire to.

He disappears within the throng, his Sylveon protectively on his heels. She glances back at Kipper with that same indecipherable expression as always. Like she cannot decide if he is a threat or if she merely pities him. Sometimes, in his worst moments, he looks at her and sees the Eevee she used to be: the one he would hold and feed Pokéblocks to and play with while Hayate looked on fondly.

As the memory wells up behind his eyes, he grits his teeth against it. The past won’t come back. If he wants to matter to Hayate again, the way he used to—no, even more than then—then he needs to prove he’s worthy of it. How could Hayate ever love someone like him as he is now, so unimportant he can’t even be bothered to track his progress in the contest circuit? If he just works harder, if he just does better, if he can just show him…

But even after all these years, the determination makes his hands shake and his stomach turn. He doesn’t even realizing he’s holding up the registration line until the guy behind him taps his shoulder and says, “Hey, man, some of us are hoping to catch dinner before all the shops close, so you might wanna speed it up a bit.”

His cheeks flush red, and he stammers out an incomprehensible apology as he turns around and faces the clerk at the counter. She smiles kindly at him; he wonders if that same irritation expressed by the man in the line lingers behind it.

Registration is a quick and simple process, but even with his ribbons verified and his place in the Grand Festival secured with his entrance ticket to prove it, his stomach roils with nausea. Hayate was here, and now he is gone. Hayate forgot about him. Hayate barely even looked at him. One fleeting touch. A broken promise. It has been this way for so long, now.

He knows better than to show his emotion to his parents, though. They love him; but he remembers, too, at the Lilycove Contest, when his father suggested maybe sitting this one out wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He could not bear to hear that now. Especially not from Drew.

So, he swallows the emotion down, and returns to his parents with his best effort at a smile. He knows as well as they probably do that it does not reach his eyes. His smiles rarely do anymore. It is hard to remember the last time he smiled for any reason other than to make someone else feel better.

They don’t comment on it. His mother hooks her arm through his and pulls him toward the door, chatting excitedly about where they’re taking him for dinner tonight. At his shoulder, there is his father: quiet and observant, as he so often is. Kipper dares not glance back and confront the look on his face, lest he find it as unhappy as he so often expects it to be these days, when he is considering Kipper.

Just one more reason why he can’t back out now: Hayate is not the only one Kipper needs to prove himself to.

For now, he is content to let his parents take him for a celebratory meal, if only so they do not fuss over him. But already, he is planning out the evening and the morning still ahead of him, the training he will need to do in order to meet Hayate’s elusive expectations. He has been practicing for the Grand Festival since before the contest circuit even started. And yet, still, teeming beneath his skin, is the sense that he has not trained hard enough, that his Pokémon are not prepared enough, that no matter how hard he tries, he will never, ever be good enough.

Though he has a full day to prepare before the Grand Festival begins, Kipper’s anxieties only heighten the following morning during his training session. The preliminary round may seem simple from the outside, but to have a good single-Move appeal requires a sort of finesse that few Coordinators embody. It’s what makes it such an effective round in the Grand Festival—and also what makes it such an intimidating one. A single step out of line, and he will risk falling below sixty-fourth place.

He can’t even think it. If Hayate makes it to the Appeals Round, and he doesn’t…

But his performances of late haven’t been as good as they could have been. Ever since the Lilycove Contest, when he lost in the Battles Round before even getting matched with Hayate. When, after the fact, Hayate approached him, wished him better luck next time, and swept past him to win the whole thing without so much as glancing over his shoulder.

And now, to know that he hasn’t been following Kipper’s advancement in the contest circuit at all this year…

No, he reminds himself, over and over. A feeble mantra, the constant reminder: not only can he do better; he has to.

And yet, he’s only had three hours to train before his mother comes to find him—and tries to coax him away.

“Tatsugiri looks exhausted,” she says softly. “Your father and I brought the best Berries we could find. Why don’t we make some Pokéblocks for your Pokémon?”

A cold fear grips him from within, dragging his heart down into the pit of his stomach. He takes in a sharp breath, and then, slowly, lets it out again. Turning away from her to look at Tatsugiri, who is still waiting for an order, he mutters, “There are too many reporters.”

“We won’t use the Blenders in the Contest Hall,” she insists. “There’s a Pokéblock store perfectly far away from the Hall we can go to instead.”

As if that matters. The entire city is swarming with eager fans and reporters. Any one of them would be all too happy to snap a picture. To post another headline online accusing Kipper’s parents of buying his success.

But when he finally looks to his mother again, her expression stabs between his ribs. Ever since he was a kid, his mother and father have been there to support him, to help him be the best coordinator he could be. They both swear up and down they aren’t bothered by the things the media says about them. But it’s never been Kipper’s intention to let their involvement in his life be a topic for gossip  columnists and provocative no-name bloggers on the Internet. Sure, they’ve had their fair share of dealing with negative press already; but isn’t it different now, than it was then? Isn’t it so much more in their faces than it used to be?

And isn’t it all Kipper’s fault, for just not being good enough to prove that he doesn’t need their help to earn his wins?

In the end, he can’t say no to her, though their walk through the streets of Slateport to an obscure, hole-in-the-wall shop in an otherwise mostly boarded-up old shopping district doesn’t do much to settle his nerves, when all he can think about is the fact that Hayate is probably still back in the Coordinators’ Village training for the prelims with Gwen.

He planned to meet Gwen here, and didn’t even know Kipper would qualify. He never bothered to ask. The last time they saw each other was last month, and yet—they had not discussed their ribbons at all. Hayate was there one moment, and gone the next. As if the moment he saw Kipper, the only goal in his mind was to get away.

But there is still that hopeful voice in the back of Kipper’s mind. The one that remembers the time they met before that, when Hayate had taken him by the hand, had smiled so sweetly, had congratulated him on his win in Purika City. Had told him, with gleaming eyes, that he could not wait to meet at the Grand Festival. He had leaned in close, then. So close that his words had ghosted against Kipper’s lips. He had said, with all the weight of that promise they made five years ago, that he would be putting his best foot forward, so Kipper should do the same.

And then, just as soon, he had pulled away. Had turned around. Had walked away. But that voice in Kipper’s head remained—has remained, after all this time: He wouldn’t be doing the Hoenn circuit with me now if he had really forgotten his promise. He wouldn’t touch me like that if he didn’t really want to lead me toward him. He wouldn’t meet my eyes with so much emotion if he really didn’t care.

It keeps his heart beating. Even when doubt trickles in. Even now, as he listens to his parents tell him about the assortment of Berries they brought with them to Slateport, just for him to make something out of for his Pokémon, and feels sick with it. Two sides of him warring within: gratitude, and love, and appreciation; the nauseating realization that every second he wastes here is another second of preparation lost. Another second his goal slips away from him. Another second Hayate slips away from him.

“Kip?” his father is saying now. “I know the Roseli Berries may not be the best quality coming from Kalos, but why don’t we try them?”

Kipper can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “Sure,” he says. “Do whatever you like. I don’t mind.”

Drew sighs. It’s a sound that has Kipper’s shoulders curling in on themselves, even as he follows it up with a gentle, “We brought all this stuff for you, not for us. It should be your choice.”

“We thought it might help you to relax before the Grand Festival,” May chimes in. “You’ve been working hard, sweetheart, and that’s great! But you don’t want your Pokémon to be too tired on the stage. Pokéblocks make a good treat for them!”

“I—I know.” Unbidden, he feels his eyes begin to sting, though he can’t exactly say why. For a long moment, he stares down at his shoes, just waiting for it to stop so he can tell them without his voice breaking, “I guess I’m just a little nervous, is all.”

Silence, for a beat. He doesn’t need to look up to know his parents are doing that non-verbal eye contact communication thing they so often do.

Finally, Drew must come out the victor, because he’s the one who says, “When you’re most nervous, that’s the time you have to make taking care of yourself and your Pokémon your highest priority. You’ve already trained enough.”

If Kipper were anyone but his son, he wouldn’t be saying this. It is only the concern that laces through his parents’ words when they speak to him that draws this gentle guidance out now. It’s exactly what the “nosy, dishonest wannabes that have the gall to call themselves journalists,” as May so often calls them, accuse him of. The more they worry for him, the more often Kipper sees it splashed everywhere online: Special treatment. Nepotism. Coddled by mommy and daddy. If they would just stop—if they would just see there’s nothing to worry about—then they wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of his failures like this.

As the thought crosses his mind anew, guilt floods through him. He grits his teeth, swallows it back. Forces his gaze up, and offers his father a smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “Let’s blend the Roselis.”

Relief flashes in Drew’s gaze. But it doesn’t help Kipper breathe any easier. The whole time, his chest only seems to tighten more and more, until the racing of his heart and the shaking of his hands threatens to drown out everything around him entirely.

His Pokéblocks turn out poorly. When he isn’t quite fast enough to blink back the first frustrated tear before it falls, his mother sets a hand on his shoulder and tactfully suggests, “Maybe we should get back and get some rest before dinner.”

He nods. It is easier to let them guide him back to the Village in silence than to open his mouth and confront the sentiment searing beneath his tongue: They must be so disappointed in me.

Though he is looking for him everywhere, Kipper doesn’t spot Hayate again over the rest of the day, or in the morning before the prelims begin. Perhaps it’s just exhaustion weakening his senses; he was up late again staring at the ceiling, thinking. When his thoughts began to grow too loud, when they sent the room spinning into disarray again, he reached for his phone and began scrolling through the list of ridiculous Skitty and Growlithe videos his sibling so often sends him. Unfortunately, they only occupied him for so long before he gave into the misplaced instinct to check the Grand Festival tags on Chatotter.

He didn’t get much sleep, after that.

In fact, he sleeps in later than he meant to, and doesn’t have time at all to rehearse his appeal with Tatsugiri before he has to get dressed and hurry backstage to prepare.

It’s here that he finds Hayate again, sat on the bench and chatting with a blonde girl Kipper vaguely recognizes from the Verdanturf Contest months ago. When he spots Kipper standing nearby, he puts a hand up to cut off whatever the girl is saying, giving Kipper the space to step forward and say hello.

He does, and Kipper smiles. The girl looks between them, her expression dropping down into something more bitter as her gaze lands on Kipper. Just as soon, he places her in his memory: Natalia, the coordinator he beat in the finals there to earn his third ribbon. Is she still bitter about the loss? They had not spoken after the fact. Kipper left the venue as soon as he could, determined to avoid the press to the best of his ability.

“Kipper,” says Hayate warmly. “Isn’t this so exciting?”

“Yeah,” Kipper says. “I’m…I’m really glad we made it here together. After all this time, I… I’m really happy that we’re competing on the same stage again.”

Hayate beams—and glances over at Natalia. “That’s right! We’ve all worked so hard to be here, haven’t we, Natalia?”

Kipper’s breath hitches. Hayate either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, as he continues on with, “We were just talking about how intense the competition will be today! I’m number fifty-eight, so we still have a long way to go… What about you, Kipper?”

“Sixty-seven,” he mutters.

“Guess you’ll be waiting a while, too!”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

“You should hear about Natalia’s appeal in Pacifidlog! I think you’ll really like it.” Hayate nudges her with his elbow good-naturedly, still smiling that winning smile that has earned him his well-worn title of Sinnoh’s Prince. “It sounded really interesting, Natalia!”

Natalia’s eyes flick uncertainly between the two of them, but even so, she begins to talk. Kipper smiles and nods along. It’s the only natural thing to do, when his heart is roaring so furiously between his ears he cannot make out what she’s saying at all. Hayate is close enough to touch, and yet they have never been farther apart. Even when they hear the announcer on the TV declaring the end of contestant #54’s appeal and Hayate says, “I guess I should be getting ready to go up there!” and stands and brushes past Kipper, setting a hand on his shoulder as he passes by, it is as though oceans divide them.

He says, in the same jubilant tone he spoke to Natalia with, “Good luck out there, Kip! Do your best for me!”

Kipper blinks, and then he is gone. In his wake, there is only a bitter taste rising up in his throat. The knowledge forcing it upward that this is all wrong. That he should be worth more to Hayate. That they have been through too much together for him to be so…flippant. So uncaring.

But even still, he finds himself drawn to the TV, eyes glued to its screen in wait of the moment Hayate takes the stage. Natalia says something behind him that he does not have the strength to turn around and listen to. The preliminary round passes by so quickly; if he looks away for even a moment, he might miss him.

How could he look away? Hayate is his brightest star. The one he looks to on his darkest nights, searching for a sign, something to guide him forward. And this is never more apparent than when he steps out on stage. When he lifts his hand and waves to a crowd chanting his name like it is the only word they know. When he smiles toward the camera, and tosses his Poké Ball up in the air, letting the red and white rain down on him like stardust glittering against his skin.

His Pokémon of choice is Gallade: strong and proud, valiant. As protective of Hayate as any of his Pokémon are.

With all the chatter in the room, Kipper can’t hope to make out what Hayate is saying, but the direction is more than clear: he lifts his head up in perfect synchronization with Gallade, watching as Gallade uses its move—Soul Dew. The whole stage darkens with the power of the move, the light narrowing to focus on the droplet of water above Gallade’s head. And then, Hayate raises his arm in a slicing motion, which Gallade follows with perfect timing. Its bladed arm slices through the drop, shattering it; the light refracts all around them, drawing out the brilliance of Hayate’s sparkling gaze. As, at last, the suspended droplets rain down around them, the camera pans to the audience, whose cheers almost reach the same pitch and tempo as Kipper’s heartbeat bounding furiously behind his ribs.

Once Hayate has left the stage, Kipper turns around to watch the doors instead, ignoring the goings on of the stage on the screen behind him in favour of the moment Hayate reappears. The moment the exhilaration reaches his heart and he realizes there’s more he wants to say to Kipper after all.

But he never shows. And before too long, the festival volunteers are urging forward contests sixty-five through seventy. With leaden feet, Kipper follows their direction, casting one last wistful look in the other direction. But as the door to the waiting room closes behind him, shutting out any opportunity he might have to catch one more glimpse of Hayate, he turns forward again, taking in a deep breath. He can’t get distracted here, he reminds himself, removing Tatsugiri’s Ball from his belt and rolling it between his fingers determinedly. They have practiced for this moment. He could not possibly fail here, with his parents watching. With his siblings watching, from wherever in the world they are now. With Hayate watching—or so he hopes.

As the contestant in front of him goes out on stage, he steps forward in wait of his cue, and thinks to himself, Please, please—let him be watching. Let me prove myself worthy of being in the finals with him.

And just like that, the appeal before his is done with. His name is announced to the crowd. He plasters his best smile on his face, and steps out into the spotlight.