gestalt [1/1]
it's like a circle coming together, trapping him inside. [morty/whitney/falkner OT3]
pokemon; romance/humor/drama/idefk; pg13; 3000 words
One morning, Hayate is not there.
Falkner searches for him, all throughout the house and the aviary, as if it were merely a game of hide and seek (catch me if you can). He questions the neighbors and the townsfolk, but none of them were awake to witness Hayate’s departure. The sun is only just beginning to illuminate Sprout Tower in the distance, painting the dark eaves in shades of pink and orange. He must have left while it was still dark, Falkner thinks. He must have wanted to slip out unnoticed.
“Hayate is gone?” one old woman murmurs, and presses a hand to her heart. “Oh, but why? Why would he leave?”
“I don’t know,” Falkner replies. (But he saw the faraway look in his father’s eyes - the warning signs of restlessness, a need to spread his wings and fly away from this place. Falkner saw, and did nothing.)
“But who will be the gym leader?” Her husband looks stricken, and Falkner finally understands just how much these people love Hayate. He brought life to this dying village, way back when, and they have never forgotten.
“I will inherit the gym,” Falkner says quietly, confidently (though he feels anything but). The key to the gym and a note reading ‘good luck’ were the only things Hayate left behind. “My father has trained me in the ways of bird Pokemon. I will do my best to become as great a leader as he was.”
Their expressions are ones of doubt. In their eyes, he has always been and always will be the Leader’s quiet, mild-mannered son, who talks to the birds instead of people. Not the right temperament for a gym leader, they whisper amongst themselves. Not brilliant enough to fill the empty space Hayate left behind.
Later, Falker sits in the empty house, listening to his own heartbeat echo in the silence. He keeps expecting to glance up and see that roguish grin, those eyes all creased around the edges and so unlike his own. He keeps expecting to hear that familiar laughter, the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen or the creak of footsteps on the old staircase.
He wills himself not to cry, but does not quite succeed.
--
He first meets them at his Johto League admission ceremony. She is the first one to congratulate him after the announcement is made, bouncing up and down excitedly as she shakes his hand. He is soon to follow, an easy grin sliding across his face as he pats Falkner on the back (as if they’ve known each other for years instead of minutes).
Later, Falkner will think that he was probably in love with them from the start.
They’re two halves of the same whole, really. A circle coming together, trapping him inside with no chance of escape. She’s effortlessly bubbly and smiles even when she’s angry (even through her tears). He’s an easygoing dreamer, distant in a way that makes Falkner want to touch him, just to make sure he’s real.
They live on a separate plane of existence, looking at the world through tinted glasses that erase all of its ugliness. To them, life is always beautiful, each moment meant to be felt and enjoyed.
“You should come visit us sometime,” Whitney says; tilts her head to the side. “Morty’s always in Goldenrod on the weekends, and I drop by his gym in Ecruteak every Tuesday and Thursday. We could have fun, y’know? Show you all the worthwhile places. I mean, it must be pretty dull in Violet, right?”
“Dull? I… I suppose it is.” He’s never thought about it, to be honest. Never thought about what normal seventeen-year-olds consider ‘fun’ and ‘exciting’. His life up til this point has consisted of two things: his father, and bird Pokemon. Now one of those things is gone, and he is left yearning for something more.
“We’ve tried to get a few of the others in on our little get-togethers,” Morty says, “but Bugsy’s just a kid, and Jasmine is way too pedantic, and Clair’s just a crazy bitch most of the time.” He’s leaning back in his seat, arm draped lazily across Whitney’s shoulder, threading his fingers through her hair.
“How dare you insult the mighty dragon Pokemon!” Whitney exclaims, scowling and folding her arms in her best Clair impression. “I’ll have you know that our clan is one of the most feared and respected in all of… in all of…” She tries to continue, but is unable to stifle her laughter.
Morty’s lips twist into a wry smile. “As you can see from Whitney’s spot-on interpretation,” he says, “we definitely can’t invite Clair. So… Are you in?”
Falkner swallows nervously. He’s only just met these people, and yet he’s concerned about how they perceive him. What if he lets them down? What if he’s nowhere near as good company as they seem to think he’ll be? He thinks back on his upbringing and worries: Aren’t I just as prim and proper as Jasmine? Aren’t I just as much a kid as Bugsy, seventeen years old without an idea of what the world’s really like?
Come on, son, says a rough voice in the back of his mind. It’s time to start taking chances.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m in.”
--
He loses his first battle as gym leader.
The girl is adorable - twelve at the most, with wide brown eyes and pigtails and an oversized cap that flops down over her ears.
“Thank you for the battle, Mr. Gym Leader,” she says, plucking the Zephyr Badge from his hand and bowing respectfully. “It was lots of fun, and your bird Pokemon were really tough!”
“Yes,” he murmurs absentmindedly, and feels a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. “Thank you as well.”
Later, he calls Morty and tells him what happened.
“Ah well,” the blond man says, shrugging. “You win some, you lose some. That’s just the way the world turns, Falkner. Try looking on the bright side of things.”
You win some, you lose some.
Father always said the same thing.
--
Nightlife in Goldenrod City is not what Falkner expected it to be. Instead of chic nightclubs and dimly lit bars, he finds himself dragged from one strange locale to another - a musty antique shop one moment, an impressionist art gallery the next. Whitney and Morty’s idea of a “fun activity” turns out to be very different from the glamorous images their initial invitation had placed in Falkner’s mind.
And yet, for the first time in his life, he feels free from the all-encompassing shadow of the Violet Gym (and in turn, free from that of his father). It’s nice, he thinks, to be another average person on the street, blending in until he’s indistinguishable amongst the throng.
Or at least he would blend in, if it weren’t for his present company. They’ve stopped in a vintage clothing store, and Whitney is busy trying on every available outfit, combining colors and textures that should never, ever be combined. Occasionally she pops out of the dressing room to model something, and Falkner is forced to come up with new and creative compliments. Morty is caught in a heated discussion about scarf knitting with the shopkeeper, and their debate over decorative appliqués is beginning to attract the attention of the other customers.
And Falkner stands in the middle of it all, feeling more than a little out of place.
“What about this one?” Whitney asks, twirling around and posing like a true fashionista. She’s wearing a form-fitting checkered dress that reveals a bit too much skin for Falkner’s delicate disposition to handle - he blushes and averts his eyes.
“It… it looks v-very nice,” he stammers, and Whitney’s ever-present smile becomes positively catlike.
“Oh Falkner,” she says, and pulls him into a quick hug. “You’re so shy and adorable! I love that about you.”
He blushes even further when he feels her breasts pressing against him, and he hurries to disentangle himself.
“Umm… I-I don’t think - ”
“Ooh! I know!” Whitney claps her hands together and runs back into the dressing room, emerging moments later with a beautifully embroidered kimono of blue silk, patterned with intricate orange flowers. “Here,” she says, thrusting it at him. “Try it on! It’ll look great, I swear!”
Falkner blanches; backs up a few steps and nearly knocks over a rack of sweaters.
“Oh no,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I really don’t feel comfortable - ”
“Come onnn,” the pink-haired girl whines, and pouts childishly. “Live a little, Falkner! Be spontaneous!”
And though his common sense is screaming at him, telling him to get out of there this instant, you idiot, he can’t help but think that he’d like to live a little, if only for tonight.
(It turns out that being mistaken for a woman can get you a lot of free drinks.)
--
They’re sitting in a seedy karaoke bar on the rough side of town, listening to Whitney serenade a small crowd of thugs and gangsters, all of whom leer up at her through the gloom with sleazy smiles. The smell of old cigarettes and something far more rank permeates the air, and Falkner tries not to think about the origin of the dark reddish stain patterning the table.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” Falkner hisses.
Morty shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. “But the people here are pretty nice most of the time. Whitney’s friends with a few of them.”
Horrified, Falkner glances back and forth between Morty and the hulking, tattooed giant of a man sitting next to them. On his forearm is an artistic interpretation of a Gyarados biting the head off a hapless human.
“Whitney’s friends with these people?”
“Hmm? Well yeah. Whitney knows just about everyone here in Goldenrod, and they all love her.”
The word “love” gives Falkner pause. His gaze travels the path of Morty’s eyes, to the stage where Whitney is illuminated on the stage. She’s smiling like always, eyes bright, but there’s an undercurrent of beauty and elegance dancing beneath her usual sweetness. Falkner thinks that she is a person meant to be in the spotlight.
“Do you love her?” he asks quietly.
Morty’s attention flickers to him for half a second, then back to her. “I do,” he says, and smiles gently. “There’s just something about her, y’know? Something alive.” (Falkner knows.) “She’s my better half sometimes, when I’ve spent too long with my ghosts and I start slipping between our world and theirs. She keeps me grounded to reality when no one else can.”
“Must be nice,” Falkner murmurs. He’s jealous of what they have, no matter how much he tries to deny it. Someone who will pull you back from the brink, regardless of how far you fall… Someone who will never leave you behind, even when they rise above you and climb higher and higher -
“How’d I do, guys?” Whitney asks, sliding into the seat next to Morty. The blond man shifts over to make room, pressing himself against Falkner so that their shoulders are brushing and their legs are touching in a manner that feels strangely intimate.
“Spectacular as always, babe,” Morty says, and Falkner nods his agreement. She beams at them and leans over, kissing them both on the cheek in quick succession.
“I agree,” says a gravelly, heavily-accented voice. A man steps out of the shadows, fedora pulled low over his eyes. Gold glimmers when he smiles, and dark ink patterns his skin like a spiderweb. “That was a rousing rendition, if I may say so.”
Whitney laughs. “Thanks, Sergei! I didn’t know you liked that kind of music.”
“Only if it is you singing, dragotsennaya,” the man murmurs, doffing his hat in a gentlemanly fashion. Falkner’s eyes widen when he sees his face - one eye is gone entirely, covered by a vicious scar.
“Sergei, my man,” Morty says with a grin; holds out a hand. Sergei clasps it within his own and bows his head respectfully, as if Morty were a great lord or a god descended from upon high.
“And who is this?” he asks, turning his one good eye to Falkner. In response, Falkner sinks lower in his seat. The man’s piercing blue eye stares right through him, appraising what it finds within.
“Falkner’s the new Violet Gym Leader,” Whitney chimes in. “You knew his dad, right Sergei? Weren’t you two old friends?”
Immediately, Falkner’s interest is piqued and his fear forgotten. “You knew my dad?” he demands, leaning across the table.
Sergei nods, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. “Indeed I did, molodóy,” he says. “He was well-known in my home country back in the day. We played poker together every week, and he always won, the lucky devil. He was a great Gym Leader in his time, you know… But it is your turn now. And I hear you are making him proud.”
“Making… him proud?”
“Indeed.” Sergei smiles; tugs his fedora back on and turns to walk away. “I’d wish you luck, but I don’t think you need it.”
--
Later that evening, the screen of his PokeNav lights up - a message from an unknown sender.
The old Fearow in the aviary has some trouble with its right wing, the message reads. It may need treatment, or possibly surgery depending on the extent of the injury.
Falkner smiles and shakes his head. The Fearow’s wing healed weeks ago, after a bit of physical therapy and some strong herbal medicine from the monks of Sprout Tower. He’d noticed the injury mere days after his father’s departure.
“Thanks anyways, dad.”
--
Falkner finds that the top floor of the Tin Tower is the ideal place for watching fireworks. The bursts of color and light and sound are dazzling at this altitude, so close he could almost reach out and touch the smoldering ashes that descend in their wake. The night air is cold here, prickling the back of his throat like needles, and each explosion of pyrotechnics sends a shiver through his still frame. It’s beautiful here, above the world.
But that might have something to do with the pink-haired girl curled against him, leaning her head against his arm.
“Such a wonderful night for fireworks,” Whitney murmurs, snuggling farther beneath the thick blanket.
“I don’t know about that,” Morty says. His dark purple eyes reflect the flashes of red and green and blue in the night sky. “The Veil is very thin tonight.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “Ugh, Morty. Just lie back and enjoy the show, will you? I get jumpy whenever you talk about that stuff.”
“What is the Veil?” Falkner asks, innocently curious. He’s still getting used to Morty’s eccentricities.
“The Veil is like a barrier between our world and the afterlife.” From his place at Whitney’s other side, the blond man is looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Falkner feels another shiver go down his spine, but this one has nothing to do with the cold. “On certain nights, when the conditions are right, the Veil stretches thinner and thinner until rifts begin to appear in the fabric. That is how spirits become trapped in our world - they wander through rifts in the Veil, and later find themselves unable to return.”
“So, tonight…?”
Morty nods. “Tonight is one of those nights. Just look closely, Falkner. You might see a place where the air seems to fluctuate and bend upon itself, as if something were trying to get through…”
“Okay seriously, stop it right now,” Whitney demands, clapping her hands over ears. “I’m getting majorly freaked out.”
Morty laughs, but Falkner can see the worry in his eyes, the hint of sadness tugging at his lips. To him, ghost stories are much more than harmless tales. His family has communed with ghosts since the beginning of time, people say. Only they are able to calm a vengeful spirit and bring it to its rest, and only they can hear the last wishes of the dead echoing across the ages.
Falkner stares into the deep shadows of the Tin Tower, and thinks he sees the darkness twisting and writhing like a living creature.
--
“Do ghosts frighten you, Falkner?”
He has to ponder this.
“No,” he says finally, slowly. “Not entirely. They frighten me because they remind of death, how you never know when it might claim you. They frighten me because I don’t want to become one of them when I’m gone. I don’t want to wander forever between the two worlds, unsure of where I belong. But… the ghosts themselves are beautiful, in a melancholy sort of way. Anyone who can see them is lucky, I think.”
Morty stares at him for a long moment, then leans across Whitney’s sleeping form and kisses him, lips brushing against his ever-so-lightly.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, and his breath ghosts warm against Falkner’s cheek. “May the spirits guide you to the next sunrise.”
(Later, Falkner will wonder if this was all just a dream.)
--
--
When he awakens, he finds himself stiff and sore from sleeping on the rough wooden floor of the Tower. His joints ache, and he tries to stretch but finds himself trapped. On his left, Whitney is snuggled in the crook of his arm, head resting against his chest. On his right, Morty is hugging him like a pillow, arms encircling his midriff tightly.
Falkner’s eyes widen, and then he smiles, hesitant and hopeful.
Perhaps there’s room for him in the circle after all.
pokemon; romance/humor/drama/idefk; pg13; 3000 words
One morning, Hayate is not there.
Falkner searches for him, all throughout the house and the aviary, as if it were merely a game of hide and seek (catch me if you can). He questions the neighbors and the townsfolk, but none of them were awake to witness Hayate’s departure. The sun is only just beginning to illuminate Sprout Tower in the distance, painting the dark eaves in shades of pink and orange. He must have left while it was still dark, Falkner thinks. He must have wanted to slip out unnoticed.
“Hayate is gone?” one old woman murmurs, and presses a hand to her heart. “Oh, but why? Why would he leave?”
“I don’t know,” Falkner replies. (But he saw the faraway look in his father’s eyes - the warning signs of restlessness, a need to spread his wings and fly away from this place. Falkner saw, and did nothing.)
“But who will be the gym leader?” Her husband looks stricken, and Falkner finally understands just how much these people love Hayate. He brought life to this dying village, way back when, and they have never forgotten.
“I will inherit the gym,” Falkner says quietly, confidently (though he feels anything but). The key to the gym and a note reading ‘good luck’ were the only things Hayate left behind. “My father has trained me in the ways of bird Pokemon. I will do my best to become as great a leader as he was.”
Their expressions are ones of doubt. In their eyes, he has always been and always will be the Leader’s quiet, mild-mannered son, who talks to the birds instead of people. Not the right temperament for a gym leader, they whisper amongst themselves. Not brilliant enough to fill the empty space Hayate left behind.
Later, Falker sits in the empty house, listening to his own heartbeat echo in the silence. He keeps expecting to glance up and see that roguish grin, those eyes all creased around the edges and so unlike his own. He keeps expecting to hear that familiar laughter, the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen or the creak of footsteps on the old staircase.
He wills himself not to cry, but does not quite succeed.
--
He first meets them at his Johto League admission ceremony. She is the first one to congratulate him after the announcement is made, bouncing up and down excitedly as she shakes his hand. He is soon to follow, an easy grin sliding across his face as he pats Falkner on the back (as if they’ve known each other for years instead of minutes).
Later, Falkner will think that he was probably in love with them from the start.
They’re two halves of the same whole, really. A circle coming together, trapping him inside with no chance of escape. She’s effortlessly bubbly and smiles even when she’s angry (even through her tears). He’s an easygoing dreamer, distant in a way that makes Falkner want to touch him, just to make sure he’s real.
They live on a separate plane of existence, looking at the world through tinted glasses that erase all of its ugliness. To them, life is always beautiful, each moment meant to be felt and enjoyed.
“You should come visit us sometime,” Whitney says; tilts her head to the side. “Morty’s always in Goldenrod on the weekends, and I drop by his gym in Ecruteak every Tuesday and Thursday. We could have fun, y’know? Show you all the worthwhile places. I mean, it must be pretty dull in Violet, right?”
“Dull? I… I suppose it is.” He’s never thought about it, to be honest. Never thought about what normal seventeen-year-olds consider ‘fun’ and ‘exciting’. His life up til this point has consisted of two things: his father, and bird Pokemon. Now one of those things is gone, and he is left yearning for something more.
“We’ve tried to get a few of the others in on our little get-togethers,” Morty says, “but Bugsy’s just a kid, and Jasmine is way too pedantic, and Clair’s just a crazy bitch most of the time.” He’s leaning back in his seat, arm draped lazily across Whitney’s shoulder, threading his fingers through her hair.
“How dare you insult the mighty dragon Pokemon!” Whitney exclaims, scowling and folding her arms in her best Clair impression. “I’ll have you know that our clan is one of the most feared and respected in all of… in all of…” She tries to continue, but is unable to stifle her laughter.
Morty’s lips twist into a wry smile. “As you can see from Whitney’s spot-on interpretation,” he says, “we definitely can’t invite Clair. So… Are you in?”
Falkner swallows nervously. He’s only just met these people, and yet he’s concerned about how they perceive him. What if he lets them down? What if he’s nowhere near as good company as they seem to think he’ll be? He thinks back on his upbringing and worries: Aren’t I just as prim and proper as Jasmine? Aren’t I just as much a kid as Bugsy, seventeen years old without an idea of what the world’s really like?
Come on, son, says a rough voice in the back of his mind. It’s time to start taking chances.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m in.”
--
He loses his first battle as gym leader.
The girl is adorable - twelve at the most, with wide brown eyes and pigtails and an oversized cap that flops down over her ears.
“Thank you for the battle, Mr. Gym Leader,” she says, plucking the Zephyr Badge from his hand and bowing respectfully. “It was lots of fun, and your bird Pokemon were really tough!”
“Yes,” he murmurs absentmindedly, and feels a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. “Thank you as well.”
Later, he calls Morty and tells him what happened.
“Ah well,” the blond man says, shrugging. “You win some, you lose some. That’s just the way the world turns, Falkner. Try looking on the bright side of things.”
You win some, you lose some.
Father always said the same thing.
--
Nightlife in Goldenrod City is not what Falkner expected it to be. Instead of chic nightclubs and dimly lit bars, he finds himself dragged from one strange locale to another - a musty antique shop one moment, an impressionist art gallery the next. Whitney and Morty’s idea of a “fun activity” turns out to be very different from the glamorous images their initial invitation had placed in Falkner’s mind.
And yet, for the first time in his life, he feels free from the all-encompassing shadow of the Violet Gym (and in turn, free from that of his father). It’s nice, he thinks, to be another average person on the street, blending in until he’s indistinguishable amongst the throng.
Or at least he would blend in, if it weren’t for his present company. They’ve stopped in a vintage clothing store, and Whitney is busy trying on every available outfit, combining colors and textures that should never, ever be combined. Occasionally she pops out of the dressing room to model something, and Falkner is forced to come up with new and creative compliments. Morty is caught in a heated discussion about scarf knitting with the shopkeeper, and their debate over decorative appliqués is beginning to attract the attention of the other customers.
And Falkner stands in the middle of it all, feeling more than a little out of place.
“What about this one?” Whitney asks, twirling around and posing like a true fashionista. She’s wearing a form-fitting checkered dress that reveals a bit too much skin for Falkner’s delicate disposition to handle - he blushes and averts his eyes.
“It… it looks v-very nice,” he stammers, and Whitney’s ever-present smile becomes positively catlike.
“Oh Falkner,” she says, and pulls him into a quick hug. “You’re so shy and adorable! I love that about you.”
He blushes even further when he feels her breasts pressing against him, and he hurries to disentangle himself.
“Umm… I-I don’t think - ”
“Ooh! I know!” Whitney claps her hands together and runs back into the dressing room, emerging moments later with a beautifully embroidered kimono of blue silk, patterned with intricate orange flowers. “Here,” she says, thrusting it at him. “Try it on! It’ll look great, I swear!”
Falkner blanches; backs up a few steps and nearly knocks over a rack of sweaters.
“Oh no,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I really don’t feel comfortable - ”
“Come onnn,” the pink-haired girl whines, and pouts childishly. “Live a little, Falkner! Be spontaneous!”
And though his common sense is screaming at him, telling him to get out of there this instant, you idiot, he can’t help but think that he’d like to live a little, if only for tonight.
(It turns out that being mistaken for a woman can get you a lot of free drinks.)
--
They’re sitting in a seedy karaoke bar on the rough side of town, listening to Whitney serenade a small crowd of thugs and gangsters, all of whom leer up at her through the gloom with sleazy smiles. The smell of old cigarettes and something far more rank permeates the air, and Falkner tries not to think about the origin of the dark reddish stain patterning the table.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” Falkner hisses.
Morty shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. “But the people here are pretty nice most of the time. Whitney’s friends with a few of them.”
Horrified, Falkner glances back and forth between Morty and the hulking, tattooed giant of a man sitting next to them. On his forearm is an artistic interpretation of a Gyarados biting the head off a hapless human.
“Whitney’s friends with these people?”
“Hmm? Well yeah. Whitney knows just about everyone here in Goldenrod, and they all love her.”
The word “love” gives Falkner pause. His gaze travels the path of Morty’s eyes, to the stage where Whitney is illuminated on the stage. She’s smiling like always, eyes bright, but there’s an undercurrent of beauty and elegance dancing beneath her usual sweetness. Falkner thinks that she is a person meant to be in the spotlight.
“Do you love her?” he asks quietly.
Morty’s attention flickers to him for half a second, then back to her. “I do,” he says, and smiles gently. “There’s just something about her, y’know? Something alive.” (Falkner knows.) “She’s my better half sometimes, when I’ve spent too long with my ghosts and I start slipping between our world and theirs. She keeps me grounded to reality when no one else can.”
“Must be nice,” Falkner murmurs. He’s jealous of what they have, no matter how much he tries to deny it. Someone who will pull you back from the brink, regardless of how far you fall… Someone who will never leave you behind, even when they rise above you and climb higher and higher -
“How’d I do, guys?” Whitney asks, sliding into the seat next to Morty. The blond man shifts over to make room, pressing himself against Falkner so that their shoulders are brushing and their legs are touching in a manner that feels strangely intimate.
“Spectacular as always, babe,” Morty says, and Falkner nods his agreement. She beams at them and leans over, kissing them both on the cheek in quick succession.
“I agree,” says a gravelly, heavily-accented voice. A man steps out of the shadows, fedora pulled low over his eyes. Gold glimmers when he smiles, and dark ink patterns his skin like a spiderweb. “That was a rousing rendition, if I may say so.”
Whitney laughs. “Thanks, Sergei! I didn’t know you liked that kind of music.”
“Only if it is you singing, dragotsennaya,” the man murmurs, doffing his hat in a gentlemanly fashion. Falkner’s eyes widen when he sees his face - one eye is gone entirely, covered by a vicious scar.
“Sergei, my man,” Morty says with a grin; holds out a hand. Sergei clasps it within his own and bows his head respectfully, as if Morty were a great lord or a god descended from upon high.
“And who is this?” he asks, turning his one good eye to Falkner. In response, Falkner sinks lower in his seat. The man’s piercing blue eye stares right through him, appraising what it finds within.
“Falkner’s the new Violet Gym Leader,” Whitney chimes in. “You knew his dad, right Sergei? Weren’t you two old friends?”
Immediately, Falkner’s interest is piqued and his fear forgotten. “You knew my dad?” he demands, leaning across the table.
Sergei nods, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. “Indeed I did, molodóy,” he says. “He was well-known in my home country back in the day. We played poker together every week, and he always won, the lucky devil. He was a great Gym Leader in his time, you know… But it is your turn now. And I hear you are making him proud.”
“Making… him proud?”
“Indeed.” Sergei smiles; tugs his fedora back on and turns to walk away. “I’d wish you luck, but I don’t think you need it.”
--
Later that evening, the screen of his PokeNav lights up - a message from an unknown sender.
The old Fearow in the aviary has some trouble with its right wing, the message reads. It may need treatment, or possibly surgery depending on the extent of the injury.
Falkner smiles and shakes his head. The Fearow’s wing healed weeks ago, after a bit of physical therapy and some strong herbal medicine from the monks of Sprout Tower. He’d noticed the injury mere days after his father’s departure.
“Thanks anyways, dad.”
--
Falkner finds that the top floor of the Tin Tower is the ideal place for watching fireworks. The bursts of color and light and sound are dazzling at this altitude, so close he could almost reach out and touch the smoldering ashes that descend in their wake. The night air is cold here, prickling the back of his throat like needles, and each explosion of pyrotechnics sends a shiver through his still frame. It’s beautiful here, above the world.
But that might have something to do with the pink-haired girl curled against him, leaning her head against his arm.
“Such a wonderful night for fireworks,” Whitney murmurs, snuggling farther beneath the thick blanket.
“I don’t know about that,” Morty says. His dark purple eyes reflect the flashes of red and green and blue in the night sky. “The Veil is very thin tonight.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “Ugh, Morty. Just lie back and enjoy the show, will you? I get jumpy whenever you talk about that stuff.”
“What is the Veil?” Falkner asks, innocently curious. He’s still getting used to Morty’s eccentricities.
“The Veil is like a barrier between our world and the afterlife.” From his place at Whitney’s other side, the blond man is looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Falkner feels another shiver go down his spine, but this one has nothing to do with the cold. “On certain nights, when the conditions are right, the Veil stretches thinner and thinner until rifts begin to appear in the fabric. That is how spirits become trapped in our world - they wander through rifts in the Veil, and later find themselves unable to return.”
“So, tonight…?”
Morty nods. “Tonight is one of those nights. Just look closely, Falkner. You might see a place where the air seems to fluctuate and bend upon itself, as if something were trying to get through…”
“Okay seriously, stop it right now,” Whitney demands, clapping her hands over ears. “I’m getting majorly freaked out.”
Morty laughs, but Falkner can see the worry in his eyes, the hint of sadness tugging at his lips. To him, ghost stories are much more than harmless tales. His family has communed with ghosts since the beginning of time, people say. Only they are able to calm a vengeful spirit and bring it to its rest, and only they can hear the last wishes of the dead echoing across the ages.
Falkner stares into the deep shadows of the Tin Tower, and thinks he sees the darkness twisting and writhing like a living creature.
--
“Do ghosts frighten you, Falkner?”
He has to ponder this.
“No,” he says finally, slowly. “Not entirely. They frighten me because they remind of death, how you never know when it might claim you. They frighten me because I don’t want to become one of them when I’m gone. I don’t want to wander forever between the two worlds, unsure of where I belong. But… the ghosts themselves are beautiful, in a melancholy sort of way. Anyone who can see them is lucky, I think.”
Morty stares at him for a long moment, then leans across Whitney’s sleeping form and kisses him, lips brushing against his ever-so-lightly.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, and his breath ghosts warm against Falkner’s cheek. “May the spirits guide you to the next sunrise.”
(Later, Falkner will wonder if this was all just a dream.)
--
--
When he awakens, he finds himself stiff and sore from sleeping on the rough wooden floor of the Tower. His joints ache, and he tries to stretch but finds himself trapped. On his left, Whitney is snuggled in the crook of his arm, head resting against his chest. On his right, Morty is hugging him like a pillow, arms encircling his midriff tightly.
Falkner’s eyes widen, and then he smiles, hesitant and hopeful.
Perhaps there’s room for him in the circle after all.