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Chapter Text

Heavy .

There’s something heavy on my chest – I…

What is it? I can’t…

I-I can’t… move…?

Why can’t I move?

G…et off! Get o-off!

GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET–

When Arven wakes, he sits up instantaneously, pushing nothing but air off his chest as he rises.

In a mess of tangled sheets and cold sweat, he takes his first breaths of the day – labored and panicked, accompanied by his frantic eyes looking around an empty room for any signs of danger. He feels the dampness of his shirt against his back and the sweat that collects on the backs of his knees, bringing cotton pajama pants to hug his legs more than he is comfortable with. A shiver runs down his spine at the chill, at the realization that he has been laying in his own sweat for… however long he’d been asleep.

He inwardly cringes, throwing the thick blankets off of himself before the suffocating feeling kicks in. He’s done this before, to his displeasure; an odd dream after sleepless nights, then waking up to his own labored breathing and sweat – a dance that he has been performing since he was a child. Since –...

“What…?”

This isn’t his dorm room, and he is most certainly not in Uva Academy.

Gone are the peach walls that enclosed the small space, and gone is the kitchen that he’d spent an hour meticulously painting yellow. The walls around him allow him so much more breathing room that his dorm room could never offer, even though they are decorated with unfamiliar maps of regions around the world and medals that have not lost their shine. There are polaroid photos that hang up on a corkboard, but he is too disoriented to narrow his eyes to try and decipher whose faces are printed on synthetic plastic.

In his daze, his only sense of comfort is his sheets, clenched in the balls of his fists – the fabric feels just the way he remembers, even though he sits on a larger bed than what the Academy provided him with.

!!

Mabostiff!

Where – where is…?

He can feel his heart hammer against his chest again, and he calms himself down through clenched teeth with a breathing exercise that Director Clavell insisted on teaching him – all those years ago . He releases his grip on his sheets, leaving one hand grounded on the familiar feel of a mix of cotton and polyester and another on his chest. He counts the beating of his heart, willing and silently pleading for himself to calm down .

This is not his room.

Wherever he is, is a foreign land. Unfamiliar territory.

Where am I?

Before his breath picks up again and before he sends himself into another bout of panic, he shakes his head to relieve himself of his thoughts. There is a problem, and sitting around will not do anything to fix it. He swings his legs off the bed, standing up to his full height before he can succumb to going back to sleep to ‘ resolve ’ this issue.

On his – his? Can he assume that this is his? – nightstand, there is no sign of Mabostiff’s Poké Ball and no sign of Mabostiff himself.

Arven swallows down another wave of panic and closes his eyes. His brows furrow in thought, and he forces himself to think . He recalls the events of the previous night, filled with laughter and inside jokes between himself and his best friends. He had fallen asleep on their makeshift cot; mattresses lugged from other dorm rooms into his own, forming the biggest futon that a dorm room in Uva Academy could allow. He can recall waking up in the middle of the night to an elbow in his face; undoubtedly Nemona.

He does not recall moving from where he had lain, and he does not recall waking up to a tangle of limbs and soft snores. No, he had woken up the way he did – in a fit of panic and soaked in his own sweat.

As if reminding himself of the state of his shirt, he cringes.

Would it be breaking into someone’s stuff if I looked through that dresser?

It isn’t mine. I have never owned that dresser.

Taking in a deep breath to calm himself once again, he makes his way over to the oak dresser. It looks well-loved, scratches from the sides of it look to be from a small Pokémon – no taller than a foot and undoubtedly young; he cannot think of any other reason as to why there are claw marks on the wooden legs of the dresser. They look… old , judging from the way the marks have aged alongside the dresser itself.

But this isn’t time to play detective with the dresser, and he scolds himself for having lost a minute of his time. He opens the first drawer and then the second, pulling out the first pair of clothes that he gets his hands on. He throws them on with haste, discarding damp pajamas onto an unmade bed. His routine has already been disrupted, and there is no use in finding a shower to start his day. 

By the time he realizes that he had chosen his school uniform to don, he is standing in front of a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. His eyes glance over the small photos that are wedged in between the mirror itself and its frame. With familiar faces , he thanks whoever is watching over him – he can see Juliana, Penny, and Nemona; all of whom are scattered in memories.

My memories?

He sees an unfamiliar face in the mix. A boy, younger than he is, who looks awfully a lot like Juliana. He quickly decides that the boy’s identity is of no importance; his main concern is answering why he was here, and why everything was… different.

His brain racks through theories upon theories, ones exchanged in late-night talks with Penny over the phone. There are brief mentions of paradoxes, of universes that are parallel to theirs that may or may not exist; he remembers his skepticism and her insistence. It seems a bit too real now, to consider that this may be another universe that he has stumbled into while he dreamt. A part of him wonders if he is dead and if this was some sort of afterlife that the universe has bestowed upon him.

And if so, then why… why here?

The world stills for a moment. The pause is short enough for him to hear the sounds of waves crashing against rock and sand, from outside his window. There is a strange feeling that swells in his chest from a memory that he had long since pushed away. He can only remember so much of his childhood or the very little he could consider, but the sounds of the salt water crashing against the cliffside… lulling him to sleep after nights without his father to tuck him in and only his Maschiff to keep him company.

His hand starts to shake, and he quells the tremor by stuffing his hand into his pocket. He takes another long breath, head tilting up to the stucco ceiling and staring into its eggshell color. The memories of feeling alone are quickly pushed away, and he instead focuses on the sounds that he hears from outside the walls of his room.

The waves. He can hear the sea crash into land.

He waits another few seconds, drawing his hand out of his pocket and running it through his messy mop of hair. He pulls at a handful in irritation, relishing in the way that his scalp is tugged on – and the feeling draws him back to the reality of it all.

Arven is alone, again .

There is a sound that leaves his lips, one that he cannot place and one that he will refuse to believe has come out of him. It is full of despair, a cry waiting to be formed. He cannot stand the feeling of not knowing ; not knowing who he is, not knowing where he is, not knowing…

When is Mamá coming back?

Papá, how long will you be gone?

He lets out a breath.

Mister Clavell, have you… have you heard anything from Dad?

Before he can start crying – pathetic. – in his place, he grounds himself in his surroundings. His bare feet pad against the carpeted floors, and he realizes that he must be on the second story, given the way that his footsteps sound. There is another room beneath his, but he cannot remember the… the Lighthouse having more than one story. He only remembers the dim, blue light of his father’s work and the couch that he was given to sleep on.

He remembers the crestfallen look on Juliana’s face when she entered the Lighthouse for the first time, peering into the window of his life that he’d drawn the curtains back of.

He walks back to his nightstand and picks up his Rotom Phone, taking a seat on the bed that he had woken up in. The notifications that pop up on his screen are not unusual; texts from their group chat that has gone on since two in the morning and taken pause at five. Penny must have stayed up and Juliana must have indulged. He reads through private texts from Juliana, of links to funny videos and photos of her Meowscarada making a face at what appears to be a sandwich she made.

He sees a new name on his phone. Florian . The texts between them are lengthy; much like his with everyone else’s. Talks of the future after graduation, of Herba Mystica, possibly being used medicinally instead of in the sandwiches that he’s made, of gratitude at throwing a surprise birthday party last month. It is odd, he can admit, seeing how deep this friendship goes – but not remember a single second of it.

There are other messages beneath the myriad of Nemona’s and Juliana’s, but his breath catches in his throat when he reads the names ‘ Mom ’ and ‘ Dad ’.

Separately, they have their own conversations. They also have a group chat between the three of them; it feels wrong to read ‘ To you, Mom, and Dad ’ in bold text. His eyes glance over the words on his screen once more before he realizes that this is not some sick, sick hallucination.

[ From Mom | 8:57 AM : can u take the chicken out of the fridge i frgo]
[ From Mom | 8:57 AM : forgot]
[ From Dad | 3:12 PM : Sorry, I just saw this. How do you both feel about take-out tonight?]

Arven all but throws his phone onto the carpeted floor, but the Rotom catches itself before the device can hit the ground. He buries his face in his hands, choosing to ignore the glare that the device gives him through its eyes. His fingers dig into his hair once again, pressing and pressing until his head hurts; he can feel tears well up in his eyes, and he blinks them away before they start to cascade down his cheeks like a waterfall. Instead, they fall onto the ground between his feet, dampening the carpeted floor underneath him as he leans forward in his seat.

This is wrong. This is all WRONG!

Why… No, that’s not real. That can’t be real.

Dad’s dead and buried somewhere in… in that place . A-and Mom –

Mom left . Why is…?

He feels sick, and he covers his mouth with his hands the moment he feels bile rise up his throat. His hands are shaking as he looks around the room once again, this time with more clarity than he did when he had just woken up. Now, he sees the figures on the corkboard; polaroids of a boy that looks just like him , smiling wide in each and every photo. 

He turns away when he sees his father smiling back at the camera.

He cannot bring himself to glance back at the woman beside his father, whose arm is wrapped around his waist and who bears a grin that is not at all photogenic.

With a sudden urge to get away , he bounds towards the door. The four, beige walls close in on him as he scampers out of the room, closer and closer until he steps through the threshold. Gone is the carpet underneath his feet, now replaced with dark, hardwood panels that feel cold to the touch. He ignores the discomfort, hand clamping down on a wooden railing to his left. There are stairs that lead downstairs, but he feels as though he isn’t ready for that yet.

There is a door at the end of the narrow hallway, open slightly ajar enough for him to see that it is a bathroom. He all but runs into the white room, closing the door behind him to shut out whatever hallucinations await him. He spits out the saliva that has pooled in his mouth from earlier into the sink, rinsing his mouth out with water and a half-empty bottle of mouthwash without a beat missed.

It takes him long to pull himself together as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. He does not look any different from what he remembers himself to be, thankfully. His familiar facial features greet him in return; a straight nose, the slight down-curve of his lips, and teal eyes. He stares into the same eyes that his father had once mentioned were just like his mother’s; he tries to forget the distaste on his tongue and the one second he looked at him as if he were someone else.

He expects relief to welcome him but is instead greeted with a feeling of distress. In the span of seconds, he realizes that he is in his own body – the room that he had desperately run out of was his own, and whatever sick messages he saw on the screen of his phone were his own . The late-night conversations with Penny come repeating again and again in his head. Alternate universes and paradigm shifts; the reality that he was accustomed to was just one of many that could come to fruition.

This cannot be real.

Telling himself that over and over again does not seem to work, to his disappointment. 

He does not wake up in the arms of his best friends, or rather, with limbs draped all over him from sleeping half the day away. He does not feel Mabostiff’s thick fur from behind his head from being used as a makeshift pillow, not that the Pokémon minded. He does not squint his eyes at the sunlight that practically pours through his dorm window, even when his linen curtains are drawn shut.

No, he is stuck . He is stuck in a world that he refuses to take any part in, in a world that he had once dreamt of as a child but left behind at the tremendous impossibility of it all. His face looks back at him in horror as he realizes the severity of his situation, and he hates that he sees fresh tears start to brew in his eyes once again. He choked back a sob through the back of his hand, biting down on the insides of his cheeks until he swallows his panic down again.

It takes him a minute – maybe two, maybe three – to calm himself down. He wipes his hand on his fresh shirt, tears wetting the material of his uniform. He doesn’t know if he has any classes to attend today; not that he cares, at this point. All he wants is to go back to the comforts of his own dorm room, the only home that he has truly ever known. He wants nothing to do with this reality, wants nothing to do with the impostors that pose as his parents – wherever they are! No, he wants to go home .

His eyes glance away from the mirror and up at a window, high enough on the tiled wall against the walk-in shower. Briefly, he wonders if he can fit in there and shimmy his way out of whatever version of the Lighthouse this is, but the thought of his most precious buddy comes into mind. He cannot leave without Mabostiff. Not after everything that they’ve gone through.

Arven steels himself, resting his forehead on the wooden bathroom door for a few seconds before he opens it up.

Again, he is greeted with the narrow hallway and the staircase to his – now – right. There is another room that he must have missed in his daze; double doors with glass panels that lead to an office. The devices in the room are turned off, no longer glazing four walls with dim, blue hues; he cannot hear the whirring of machines, so he hypothesizes that they have yet to be used today. He wills himself not to peek into the room, knowing that he will end up reminding himself of a childhood that he did not have.

He focuses on the photos again. The ones outside of his room do not depict any faces, but instead, they show scenes from regions and regions away. From the knowledge that he obtained through mindless, online scrolling, he can recognize the seas of the Hoenn region and the forests of Kanto. There are other photos framed in the lineup – of unfamiliar places. Perhaps, memories that are not his own.

Then, whose …?

“Arven! Are you up?”

His father’s voice freezes him in his spot, hand ghosting over the wooden banister.

Arven can barely remember the sound of his voice. Ten years ago, he had managed to manipulate the Terastal Phenomenon itself; his time, ever so precious, had all been poured into his research without a care for his own son. The promise of daily calls turned into weekly emails, which turned into the occasional birthday greeting and the multitude of broken promises to come up to the surface. He shakes where he stands, filled with an anger that his friends already coaxed out of him; all the work that they put into him, all the hours of listening to him rant and ramble about the woes of not just one but two absent parents – gone .

His footsteps are heavy down the stairs, and he expects the creaking of wood. There is no way that a man like Turo can upkeep a house. If he could not give his own son the time he was entitled to, then what right did he have to ensure that this house’s foundations were still upright? The thought angers him again, and he curses his maker – even in his death.

He stops at the foot of the stairs and feels terrible .

[“ Oh… Look… How big you’ve grown... ”]

The guilt floods his system before he has any say in it. He grits his teeth and shuts his eyes closed, wanting nothing more than for his torment to stop. But when his eyes close, he is encompassed in darkness, and it is easier to remember the longing look on the AI’s face whenever IT gazed upon him. He opens his eyes back up and comes to his senses, refusing to take a seat on the bottom of the staircase and be nothing but helpless .

No, he wants to get to him first – the last thing that he wants is for him to find him with his hands in his hair, sobbing on a staircase that he had only crossed once .

He gathers enough courage to keep moving, to keep treading through a living room that he does not recall. It is odd to see the Lighthouse so clean and so pristine, filled with a warmth that he could not place. There is a blanket folded neatly on top of an orange couch, and he recognizes Mabostiff’s stubborn fur on the thick material. Relief comes to him quicker than the guilt did moments ago. At the very least, he has his best buddy in this universe.

But he is not here to take comfort and to take residence in this odd reality – no.

Arven stands on the threshold of the open kitchen, the living room behind him, and the source of his panic in front of him. He watches his father’s back as he maneuvers through a small kitchen; the apron that had been tied to his back has slowly become loose, and it looks to be one breeze of air away from unraveling itself. Instead of a perfect, pressed lab coat over his shoulders, his father wears nothing but a sweatshirt and a pair of loose joggers. It is an odd image – in his seventeen years of life, not once had he seen his father in something other than his work clothes.

Even in death, you still wore your stupid, ugly coat.

You dressed your robot in it, too.

A-and now? You have the gall to dress up like nothing’s WRONG.

He smells breakfast cooking on the stove. Without having to look past his father, he can tell that he is making eggs with roasted bell peppers. He sees the fresh herbs on the countertop and can make out the appearance of parsley. It is surprising – his favorite comfort food, being cooked by the same man who refused to give him the time of day when it mattered the most.

He takes a step back to retreat. He cannot do this. No, if he just goes back to sleep, there may be a chance that he wakes up in his own universe, where his father is dead and his mother is gone and – !!

“Oh! Buenas , Arven!” His father calls out to him before he can run away , and he has frozen in place again. “I swear, I can’t hear anything from this kitchen. Didn’t hear you come down the stairs.” His voice, his voice, his voice – so foreign, yet so familiar . He once longed to hear the warmth in his voice, but now it just felt… weird. Out of place. 

He shouldn’t be here.

There is a warm smile on his father’s face that appears when he turns around to look at him. He plates the eggs and serves them on the small table for four, pushing the dish towards what is… presumably his seat. 

He has never had a seat – just… wherever his father didn’t sit, and then after he left, wherever he could . The reminder stirs something that he cannot place in his heart, but he ignores it and instead gathers up the courage to look at his father.

Professor Turo does not look the same as the AI that was fashioned in his image. Instead, he bears the signs of aging – the signs of being a father for seventeen years, of sleepless nights with a baby, and of agitating moments with math homework that a child just could not get . The hairs on the sides of his face have turned gray, presumably from the hours that he has dedicated to his research; if he looks closely enough, then he would find gray hairs on his beard. Smiling, the corners of his eyes fold with the tiniest hint of wrinkles. His father has aged, as he should have – not frozen in time through some… some machine .

“Thought you could use a sleep-in. Director Clavell mentioned that your instructors have noticed you putting in the work.” He carefully places the hot pan into the sink, turning the faucet on and letting cold water hit the iron. Steam hisses at the temperatures meeting, but it is cooled down within a few seconds. His father waves a hand in the air to dissipate the steam before he returns to his place in front of the stove. “I’m proud of you.”

His father’s words have him take a sharp breath, and he feels lightheaded at the words he has subconsciously yearned to hear. The validation of a father – he calls himself pathetic, scolding himself for turning into putty and almost melting at how he made him proud. His hand grips the back of his chair, but he does not move to pull it out and take a seat. Instead, he uses his chair to hold himself steady.

“You’re wearing your uniform. Do you need to go to the Academy today?” Turo asks, reaching over the hot surface and turning the stove off with the turn of a knob. His movements are fluid as if he has walked around this kitchen countless times before; he breezes through putting away the items he’d taken out for breakfast, opening cupboards and drawers that he has not seen before. “I will be making a trip to Mesagoza after brunch. I heard that Chansey Supply restocked their goods, and they seem to be doing that once in a blue moon nowadays. If you’d like, we can catch the same cab going?”

[“ So… p-proud of you… my… ”]

He remains silent as the words of the AI and his father mix into one, and he feels himself gripping the wooden chair harder than he already was. He is careful not to press his nails against the wood; a lesson learned when he was too young to worry about how the uncertain controlled his body more than he could. His father’s words sound like a soft hum to him, low and quiet – full of meaning, full of love . Even when he is talking about the lack of supply at a store that sells Pokémon goods, he feels the warmth radiate off of each and every syllable that leaves his father’s mouth.

His other hand is balled into a fist at his side, and he feels his nails digging crescents into his skin. They sting and remind him that he cannot continue to stand there and listen – that he cannot refuse the food that has been offered to him and that he cannot ignore the man who wears the same face as his father, who left him alone for the first time at the age of six. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words seem to want to come out; he is terrified, and it is odd that he is.

For the first time in so, so long , he finally sees Turo in the image that all the other children at school had of their own fathers. In all honestly, he cannot recall a time when his father looked up from the glowing monitor of his computer, or when his father praised him even for the grandest of milestones. No, he remembers his father to be calculative and cold , only speaking to him in riddles while his eyes served as windows to his overworked brain. There were always whispers and inward reminders to check up on (c)'s formula or to ensure proper functionality. As a child, he did not understand the soft words underneath his father’s breath; he had once thought that they were words for him – a fool, he was, thinking that Professor Turo of Paldea would truly speak to his son.

But… But there are memories of moments that are between few and none. Of quiet chuckles in the dead of night and arms that held him tight and safe . Of stories about another childhood to calm him down from the thundering skies outside of the Lighthouse. Of Saturday mornings slept in on a chest that rose and fell to the beat of his own. Of a father who loved and cared for him as though he was not a burden .

Arven does not know how he lost control of his legs, of his body – but he finds himself walking toward his father as he turns around from his task at hand. His hands continue to shake as he barrels into his chest, arms wrapped around the man’s shoulders and face buried into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He stands just as tall as his father, who undoubtedly feels the wet tears dampen his shirt by his neck. Embarrassment fills his system before he realizes that he is crying on his shoulder; he chokes back a sob when he smells the familiar scent of his cologne.

He remembers lonely nights on the couch, small arms wrapped around a pillow that is encased in one of his father’s old shirts – just to feel like he was there .

His hand grasps at the back of his father’s shirt, balling it up in his fist – a yearning for comfort. He feels the tremor in his hands, in his arms, and in his weak knees. It should not feel strange to hug someone after ten years , but having a father who is absent for such a long amount of time is not normal, either. He tightens his grip around his father’s shoulders, sniffling into his shirt and biting his lip to prevent any sobs from escaping past.

But then he remembers – he remembers who he is, and who this man is. He is Arven, the son of Professor Turo, who has lived by his lonesome long enough to know that hugging this stranger will not solve his predicament. All at once, his body stiffens, and his face heats up in embarrassment. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Just as he makes a move to untangle himself from his own doing, he feels his father’s arms encircle him. There is a hand that rests on his back, rubbing comforting circles onto the fabric of his uniform and making him want to cry all over again. He hears his father shush him softly – he should feel belittled , but it is only warmth that radiates in his chest. At the back of his head, there is a hand that holds him where he is, silently telling him that it is okay – that everything is fine .

“You’re alright, my boy.”

The words of his father make him outright bawl into his shirt, but with the soft and comforting words whispered to his side and with the way Turo seems to be rocking him, he feels no wave of self-consciousness overcome him. Instead, he pours his heart out into the sobs that finally, finally escape past his lips, muffled into his father’s already-damp shoulder. He feels like a child again, crying loudly into his father’s shoulder – but this time, his father does not chastise him for drawing time away from his research; no, his father hushes and comforts him as he should have done, all those years ago.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to calm down . He is seventeen; there is no need for him to cry into his father’s shoulder like he is a child. He has braved the storybook Titans of Paldea and has started to establish his own name in his own right. He is Arven – and he should not be holding onto his father as though he is a lifeline.

But in his mind, there is a whisper of a voice that is his own, one that reminds him that he has only gotten to feel this warmth a handful of times before. No matter how many Titans he has defeated and how much knowledge of the fabled Herba Mystica he has gained, he is still a child. One who had to grow up too fast , without the love of either parent.

Quietly, he comes to a resolve. He cannot forgive his father for his wrongdoings, but he can… he can understand them, at the very least. The words of the AI echo in his mind, again and again – repeating like an old, broken record player. He is loved, even in the death of his father, even in the arms of the same father who is not of his own universe.

Arven does not know how long he has been crying into his father’s shoulder, and he does not know how to handle the aftermath of his actions. Control comes back to his body; he will continue to tell himself that this outburst was not of his own, despite his own mind beckoning him to sob into comforting arms that will surely take him. He clears his throat, pausing the comforting words of his father, who gives him one last pat on the back before he lets go.

The warmth disappears from his touch, but it stays in the worried look that Turo gives him. Immediately, he is ashamed, and he brings a hand to his face to wipe off the tears that did not soak into the fabric of his shirt. He allows himself one more cough and one more sniffle before he has to steel himself, looking into his father’s brown eyes that are swimming with concern.

“I’m s-sorry,” his words come out raspy, and he realizes that he has drunk no water since he woke up. He gratefully accepts the glass of water that is offered to him, chugging the rest of it down in a few, big gulps. Was it intuition, or was it his father actually knowing him that prompted the glass of water? He shakily sets the empty glass on the table behind him and opts to distance himself from Turo.

His father watches him closely as he takes a seat – his seat, in front of the meal that he’d prepared for him. “There’s no need to apologize.” He waves off his son’s words, adjusting his sweatshirt and taking a deep breath. “Sometimes it’s… good to let go. Healthy . I’m not a psychologist, but letting a cry out can be good for you.”

Turo goes back to shuffling around in the kitchen, the sounds of his house slippers against the tiled floor keeping Arven away from his deep thoughts. He slides over a pair of utensils and a fresh glass of water, wordlessly telling him to start the day off with some food. There is still a tension in the air that sits between the both of them, but he does not seem to make much of an effort to bring his cry back up – much to Arven’s relief.

The eggs are… not good, at best. He chews through each and every bite painfully, all the while making note of what went wrong in the cooking process. There is too much salt, and the bell peppers do not complement the eggs but overpower them. Faintly, he can taste… vinegar ? He looks for a bottle of it laying around but remembers that his father had already taken the liberty of putting everything away. He clears his throat once again, hoping to disguise it as an after-effect of his sobbing; the quicker he eats his food, the sooner he gets it over with.

His father joins him when his plate is almost empty, setting down two cups of coffee on the table. If he notices the way that he has eaten too quickly , he does not say anything; no, he sits down on the seat across him, shoulders slumped in relaxation. The sight is odd – seeing Professor Turo in a state that isn’t engrossed in research and work.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Turo asks softly, raising his mug to his lips and taking a sip out of steaming, hot coffee. There is no effect of the temperature on his tongue – something that Arven has noticed in older people. Miss Tyme had once scolded him for such an insensitive question before she answered him dutifully: taste buds weaken over time, and heat brings out the flavor in ways that more seasoning cannot offer – that, and older people aren’t able to register heat as much. An odd conversation, but an important one.

Arven brings himself back to reality – this new reality – and looks into the eyes of his father. He sees no mischief and no double-edged words. Just pure concern. “I…” He brings himself to speak, but his words get caught up in his throat. This prompts him to take another sip of his water, finishing the rest of it before he is able to finish his eggs; thank goodness for the coffee. “I just… felt like it, y’know? Missed you.”

He feels as though there is more to say, and he knows that there is more to say – but what can he do?

You’ve been absent for ten years and dead for five. You left me alone.

You… You abandoned your already fucked up family. Y-you decided that your research was more important than ME .

Your son . I’m your son .

There is a strange look on his father’s face that he catches for the split second that it shows up; one that borders between concern and guilt. It is replaced with a small smile and the next sip of coffee. He cannot mask his emotions from someone who has done so all his life . “Well,” he seems to have decided not to push the topic too much, “I missed you, too.”

Out of habit, he waits for the image of his father to disappear – he is too perfect , too kind, to be real. Arven awaits for this all to be a dream, for him to wake up in the comforts of his own dorm room in the arms of his friends. He expects to forget this past hour and write it off as an odd anomaly of fantasy. But as he takes another bite of his food, he is reminded of the sour taste in his mouth, which he would have certainly wanted to wake up from.

He does not want to take away the smile on his father’s face. Not when he has just seen it for the first time in forever. Not some… some false smile that an AI has put on for show. Not some photo in Sunday’s obituary section of the news. In front of him is his father , and he has to remind himself that this may be the only chance that he gets to feel this paternal warmth. The perfection in his father’s actions will have to stop scaring him at some point.

“Do you… Do you know where Mabostiff went?” He tries to sound normal and tries to fit into this new reality. There is a challenge in soaking this all up, and the need to wake up from this dream dissipates the moment that he realizes his father is actually paying attention to him. “He wasn’t in my room this morning,” he adds shortly after, making sure to slowly speak his words so that he can direct the conversation where need be – just in case something… didn’t add up.

Relief, again, at the sight of Turo’s nod.

He really is here – Mabostiff is here !

Oh… I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you, buddy.

“He’s out on a walk. Started pawing at our door before the sun even came up.”

Arven opens his mouth to apologize, but his father raises his hand to stop him.

“Oh, you were dead tired when you came home last night. We figured you wouldn’t be awake to walk him, so we adjusted our schedules accordingly.” He waves a hand in the air, dismissing his son’s train of thought. “No harm done, truly. Your mother is on Paldea’s longest morning jog with Mabostiff as we speak.”

‘Your mother’...?

His heart skips a beat when he realizes that his mother is present in this universe – that he… he had gotten to grow up with both of his parents in the picture. The thought is foreign and uncomfortable; how is he supposed to accept the same woman whose name had been dragged through the mud by his father? As a child, he was conditioned to hate her – to hate his mother , who had left a simple note of apology before promptly erasing herself from their lives. She is a distant memory in his mind, plagued with a bitter taste.

“How are the eggs?” Turo’s words break him out of his confused thoughts, and he meets his brown eyes once again. “Admittedly, I tried something different today. I heard that adding a bit of milk can make a solid difference.”

Arven… Oh , Arven cannot tell him the truth – not with the way that his eyes are scanning every inch of his son’s face for an answer, excitement silently radiating off the man.

“They’re great,” he chokes out, a forced grin on his face. A part of him wonders if his dad – if his father in his universe – knows how to cook. He had served him cups of instant noodles before and water flavored with packets of sugar, but nothing… nothing like this . “ En serio , really. I…” He tries his best not to tear up again . “I don’t think that you’ve ever made them this good before.”

Before Turo can answer, the front door swings open, allowing the sounds of the waves crashing against rock and sand to grow louder with the lack of barrier between inside and out. Arven’s first instinct is to turn around in his seat, and his heart melts at the sight of Mabostiff scampering over to him. Relief floods his system without him having to try , and he raises himself off the chair to meet his best buddy halfway through. 

His knees hit the tiled ground hard, but he cares not for the pain and the ache that shoots up and down his legs. No, he doesn’t – not when his arms are around Mabostiff in a tight hug, and his best buddy is licking his face off of the sleep that lingered on him. He lets out a genuine laugh, scratching and rubbing Mabostiff where he knows he likes best. His Pokémon barks in excitement and joy. He does not deserve Mabostiff, who plays with and indulges him as if he hadn’t seen him in weeks .

He nearly cries when he looks into his best buddy’s eyes, seeing the spark in them. Mabostiff is healthy , and that is all that matters to him at the moment. While he does not know if Mabostiff falls ill in this universe, he at least knows that he is alive – that he is trapped in another one of his big hugs and will be given head scratches and belly rubs until either of them grows tired.

In his excitement, he does not hear the door close and the sounds of the sea silence. He does not look up to see the adoration in his father’s eyes as he looks into a pair of teal ones. He does not notice his mother – Professor Sada of Paldea – step foot into the kitchen, a brow risen in amusement at the sight of her son on the floor.

Chapter Text

I CAN’T DO THIS.
I’M SORRY.
I HAVE TO GO.
– SADA.

Arven remembers enough of his childhood, from the quiet mornings in his own solitude to the rare and brief visits from his father over the weekend. He remembers Maschiff in his own, small arms, offering him more comfort than he has ever gotten in his, then, ten years of life. He remembers how dim the Lighthouse was, how he had told himself that it was his responsibility to keep the utility bills as low as he could, so… so Dad could focus more on his work so that he wouldn’t have to worry too much about him. He remembers the dust that incessantly gathered on the tops of surfaces that he couldn’t reach quite yet, and how he had to drag a kitchen chair all around the small place to clean where he struggled. He remembers finding his mother’s last words to them in one of his father’s work drawers, tucked underneath loads and loads of documents that he could not decipher at the ripe age of ten.

Most of all, he remembers the first time that he saw his mother’s face in years – through the glow of his father’s workstation, tears angrily running down his cheeks. He read her name out loud, Professor Sada, and felt the two syllables were so strange to say; other children called their parents Mom and Dad, but he… It felt wrong to call her ‘Mom’, especially after having listened to his father drag her name into the ground and crush it underneath his boot. He reminded himself that her name was Sada as he read through an article: New Species of Kabutops Discovered by Professor Leticia Sada.

She looked… happy.

He stared at her photo for a long time that night, listening to the rain pour down from the skies and onto the roof of the Lighthouse. He saw himself in her – in the color of their eyes and in the way that their grins looked identical. The Volcarona beside her, with her arm lovingly wrapped around its body, drew out a jealousy that he thought was not possible; him, jealous of a Pokémon. A Pokémon who received more love from his mother than he ever did; a Pokémon who had more conversations with her, even without speaking a lick of common tongue; a Pokémon who was… was a Pokémon . 

What am I to… to her ?

The feeling of a hand ruffling his hair draws him out of his thoughts, and he feels himself stiffen with his arms still around Mabostiff, who lets out a concerned sound at his human’s discomfort. The sounds of footsteps recede away from him, slowly drowned out by ringing in his ears – from what, he does not know, but nothing physically hurts and that is all that matters to him at the moment. He focuses on his best buddy, giving him a few more scratches behind his ears and underneath his large chin, a breath of laughter escaping past his lips at the sight of Mabostiff overjoyed at the simplest of gestures.

There is a conversation behind him, spoken in soft tones and accompanied by gentle laughter. He hears the sound of a kiss shared between his… parents , as the ringing dials down to nothing but the noise he can ignore for the time being. There is more talk, more banter between his father and a woman that he does not remember all too well, that he barely knows . He does not know either of them, realizes; he knows of their accomplishments, of the gold and the glamor that comes with their names – but he does not know them . They do not know him , either. 

He does not know which realization hurts more.

“...ve you had breakfast yet?” The woman’s voice draws him away from his thoughts, and he realizes that he has spent more than enough time on the ground with Mabostiff than he should have.

Arven tries to hide his trembling when he gets himself up off the tiled floors, smiling down at his buddy who can tell that he is nervous, that he is unsure, and that he is uncomfortable . “I, uh… Yeah,” he mentally scolds himself at how stupid he sounds. “Dad made eggs.”

The word ‘Dad’ leaves his mouth oddly. He has not… He hasn’t referred to him as ‘Dad’ in a while – if he doesn’t count the AI, the phony, the fake . He wonders when he stopped calling him ‘ Dad ’, if it was when he stopped coming up to the surface for school events or if it was when he stopped replying to his emails. 

Was that… Would that have been when he…?

The woman snorts and his father groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation that came from a simple laugh. He prepares for the worst, to finally, finally experience the woes of separated parents who share the same kitchen space at the same time. He waits to hear the sounds of shouting and accusations, of pointed fingers and bared teeth, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t catch what she says underneath her breath, but he turns around before she can resume her own on whatever she was fixing up on the counter.

For a second, he sees his mother’s face – not on some online archeology newsletter and not some old, yearbook photo that the Academy posts of their greatest alumni. No, he sees her for the first time since he was five, and he is too shocked to notice that Mabostiff has left him to the sharks, bored of the humans and longing for the comforts of a couch that he is not allowed on. He nearly stops breathing when he sees the shape of her nose from her profile, the same one that he has on his own face. They share more than a grin and the color of their eyes.

“Do you need help, querida ?” His father calls out, not bothering to turn around to address her, and instead digs his phone out of his pocket. He wonders if he works just as much as the version of his father that he knows. Did he give him more than half-hearted birthday wishes? Did he read him stories before bed as a child, sitting beside him until he fell asleep? Was he a father , as he should have been all this time?

The woman – Sada – … Mom ? – continues to work out of view, but he cannot take his eyes off the back of her head. This is the closest that he has been to her in years , in more than a decade; he has so much to say, so much to ask and so much to be angry for , but… He cannot do that to this woman, whose hand had rested on his head for a short amount of time and made him feel more welcome and loved than he ever has before. He sits back down in his seat, meeting his father’s amused eyes before they fall back onto the screen in front of him.

She walks towards the sink, allowing him to glance at what she has been working on for the past couple of minutes – a sandwich, he realizes; it’s carefully arranged on a plate and looks a lot more appetizing than what is left of the eggs in front of him. Sada peeks her head over the sink, scoffing at the pan that he remembers his father left in there. “I’ve banned you from this kitchen so many times ! You’re scratching up every pan that we own!” She huffs in disbelief and returns to the spot she had been in, wrapping up vegetables in plastic and tying the opening of a bread bag closed.

Arven braves the rest of his father’s cooking and shovels down the last bit of the eggs into his mouth, hiding his face and looking to the side to avoid Turo’s curious gaze. The walls of the kitchen seem so interesting , he tries to convince himself through the sour taste and the urge to spit everything back out. He hears his father hum contently, followed by the sounds of his phone being tapped on. Again, he wonders if he is working or if he is on social media.

Does he even know what social media is?

“Your mother has forgotten who paid for those pans in the first place.” He hears his father grumble under his breath, and he sees the playful glint in his eyes when he swallows down the eggs. Turo’s small snicker does not linger on his face for long, replaced with a look of surprise when the woman his mother comes walking by the table, ‘accidentally’ bumping into his chair forcefully and nearly sending him falling onto his side.

A sandwich is placed in front of him, of tomatoes, avocado, kiwi, and pickles – an… interesting choice, but one that he can admire.

He looks up and sees his mother’s kind eyes and warm smile, allowing himself a moment to wonder if she has ever looked at him like that before, if she has ever thought of being a mother (or if he was a shameful accident to her). She turns around to face his father, an arm slung around his shoulders and pulling him to her side from where he sits. He feels warm and forces himself to let go of the shock that he has felt all morning; he doesn’t know if this is yet to be a dream or the universe’s most cruel joke, but he knows that he has never felt love from his mother and knows that this… this is it .

Arven lets his shoulders relax and leans his head onto her side, turning his face towards her so that he can make the most out of her touch. She does not seem to mind, does not stiffen, and does not pull away ; instead, she brings her hand to comb through his messy hair, still tangled from the sleep he pulled himself out of less than an hour ago. “Oh, my poor baby,” she coos, “forced to eat the world’s worst scrambled eggs.”

He feels his cheeks warm up and redden in embarrassment – not once has someone called him their baby . Is this what his life would have been full of, had she stayed and never left their side? He forces himself to pull away from her, eyebrows furrowed and face hot, ignoring her laughter and focusing on the hand that returns back onto his shoulder.

“The eggs weren’t bad – they were fine.” He tries to convince even himself, giving her a smile through his lie that she does not seem to believe a second of. He feels her hand leave and misses her touch already, but ultimately swallows down the pathetic sound that threatens to escape him. “They were good, really good – I promise.” The offending plate is lifted up by Sada and walked to the sink, where it is dumped unceremoniously.

She turns around and leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest and a brow risen challengingly. “I didn’t know that you liked half a bottle of vinegar in your eggs.” At this, he watches as his father looks up from his phone, brows pinched and lips pulled into a deep frown. “Your father can pay for all the pots and pans that he wants, but he cannot buy common sense, it seems.”

“What do you mean by half a bottle of vinegar ?”

He watches as his father’s attention goes solely to Sada, torso twisting around so that he can face her and watch as she gives him an incredulous look. They have an interesting dynamic, one that he has heard stories about from Director Clavell; Professors Turo and Sada, who were married to not just themselves but also to the strife that constantly hangs in the air between them. He recalls his father’s voice again, reminding him that that woman has done nothing but cause hurt and pain wherever she goes; that by her leaving, she has given him the greatest gift that her empty heart can ever conjure. He had been told that the lack of her motherhood was a blessing to be cherished.

As he watches them bicker, he realizes that they are not the same Turo and Sada that he knows – that they are… they are them, in all technicality – but the father that he knows threw everything away for his work and the mother that he knows has been absent from his life for the past twelve years… They are not the same people . She scolds him and waves an empty vinegar bottle in the air while he defends himself and claims that he thought it was water .

I…

Who puts water in scrambled eggs?

Arven tunes out their banter with a ghost of a smile on his face, thinking of the microwaved cup noodles and the flavored packets mixed into water that he was served as a child. A part of him wants to believe that his father – the one that he grew up with – provided for him the only way he knew he could; the other part of him tells him that it was still unfair, that he should not have had to grow up with the circumstances that were given to him. 

He knows… He knows . He knows that he isn’t being fair to himself by making up some version of his father in his head that would have saved him so many tears, but he indulges his thoughts – just this once. It’s nice to pretend .

He hears his father sigh, drawing him out of his thoughts. At the sight of Turo pinching the bridge of his nose and the roll of Sada’s eyes, he… he feels at home . It is strange to think of the Lighthouse as a home – as a place where he must have grown up in. To him, it only serves as a reminder of a childhood that he never was able to have, and he remembers how heavy the key to the Lighthouse weighed in his pocket until Juliana received that call from his father, until they both entered the same home that reminded him of how lonesome a child shouldn’t be.

“You could have told me that they tasted terrible , Arven.” His father sends him a look from across the table before he lets a breath out through his nose. “I’m sorry that I put you through that.”

[“ ...Sorry… You were alone s-so long… Arve– ”]

He thinks back to the events of Area Zero and of what was referred to as the Paradise Protection Protocol – of IT . Unnerving eyes that glitch and synthetic skin succumbing to crystal. Pokémon that are not of his time, no longer living and breathing but instead made of metal and electricity. Panic that coarse through his veins when all he could hear was the clicking of Poké Balls to no avail. Preparing to die at the hands of someonething that looked like his father.

The irony of it all was that their savior, the only reason that he is alive and his heart is beating, had been the same Pokémon that took his father away from him. Miraidon… Miraidon had been the reason that his father fled back into Area Zero; it had also been another Miraidon that was the reason his father… that his father –

“It’s Saturday,” Sada’s voice breaks his train of thought as she sits down in her chair between him and Turo. “I mean, you do you, but what’s up with the uniform?” She nods over at him before she reaches out for her husband’s cup of coffee, sliding it over to her side and ignoring the protest that leaves the man. She sips on his coffee and leans back into her seat – she is nothing and everything that he expects her to be.

His brain gives him one last image of the AI wearing his father’s face, making his hands tremble slightly as he reaches out to pick up his sandwich. “I… just had a long night.” He clears his throat, staring down at his own untouched cup of coffee before his gaze shifts back to the sandwich. “I don’t know. Went on autopilot, I guess…” His voice trails out towards the end, and he decides to play his unoriginal response off with a bite out of his second meal.

This is… not bad.

He does not see the prideful look that Sada throws Turo. Instead, he wonders if he would have still been given instant noodles and glorified water as a child if she had not left them. Would she have been the one to read him stories, or would it have been more of his father’s routine? Would he have had someone to bring to Uva’s Family Day instead of watching all of his friends run off with their own parents? There is no doubt in his mind that they would have had a completely different dynamic – that maybe, he wouldn’t have ended up as a seventeen-year-old who is about to cry over a sandwich .

“Do you have any plans for the day?” His father asks, and he realizes that he has to get used to how normal everything is to them . In their eyes, he is not lost in time, not lost in some universe that is not his – no, he is their son , who they… read stories to, held his hand when crossing through large crowds, and never stopped loving . He is an imposter; someone else in their son’s body – he should feel terrible for lying, but the inner child in him has been yearning and longing for this domestic scene for so long . He cannot deny himself this; at least, not for too much longer.

Arven swallows the food in his mouth before answering, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “No, I… I don’t.” He shakes his head, resulting in stubborn strands of hair falling from their place behind his head. Maybe some things have stayed the same in this universe. “I… know you offered to catch a cab to Mesagoza together, but I was kinda thinking of staying home  if that’s… if that’s cool?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s… cool !” There is not an ounce of disappointment on his father’s face, but there is something akin to false confidence. He thinks that it has to do with saying that something is ‘cool’, and his guess is supported by the sound of his mother snorting into her coffee. “I do have to head out of here in a second, though. As I’ve said, that Chansey Supply is–”

“Opening up soon and you have to get an unnecessary amount of products that Pokémon don’t even like the taste of.” Sada interrupts and puts her mug back on the table, and Arven takes this as his chance to eat a couple more bites of his sandwich without being prompted to speak. “And what do you need so much Zinc for? What Pokémon are you force-feeding Zinc to?”

For the first time since he’d woken up, Arven chuckles into his food, the image of his father – the one that he knows – at the Chansey Supply doors before they even open is amusing . He listens to them quietly as he eats, nodding along as his father explains some odd hypothesis that he is testing out on his willing Pokémon (‘ it is completely consensual and ethical, Sada ’) and as his mother debates the usefulness and purpose of his study. He can tell that they care for one another, even through sharp words and witty comments. 

They are so… so enamored with each other. It truly is an odd sight that he cannot wrap his mind around, to see two people that were infamous for loud spats and destructive behavior be terribly in love .

Were you guys like this before… before me ?

Did I ruin your marriage even before I was born…?

“It’s good that I’ve got you here for the day.” His mother’s words bring him back to earth. He hadn’t noticed that he’d been staring off into an empty plate for the duration of their conversation. “I need to cut your hair. You’re overdue for a trim.” She slides a Poké Ball over, and he realizes that it is Mabostiff’s from the marks of teeth around it. Must have been from when she took him out on a run earlier.

Arven nods quietly as he takes the Poké Ball in his hand, thumbing over the bite marks on cool metal before pocketing it. He is half overjoyed that his mother – a stranger that he knows nothing about – wants to spend time with him, yet he is also struck with a feeling of worry . No child should ever have to dwell on making the right impression on their own mother; he wants to make her proud, strangely. He wants to make both of them proud.

Has he ever made them proud?

“I’ll see you both at dinner, then.” Turo raps his knuckles against the table twice, before standing up, his chair screeching against the tiled floors and earning Sada’s click of her tongue in distaste. He ignores her narrowed eyes and leans in to kiss her before patting down his pockets to check if he has everything in them. “Oh! You know what we can do?” He straightens himself out before he walks over to his son, resting a loving hand on his shoulder. “We can do family game night! That sounds fun, yeah? Pop out a board game, put Jeaprody on the television…”

That sounds… terrible.

“That sounds terrible.”

His mother’s words surprise him, and it is as if she has read his mind and voiced out his hesitation. She rests her elbow on the table, her cheek against her fist as she looks up and speaks to her husband. “No family game night. I think we’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime, and I’m getting really tired of Monopoly.” She snorts and turns to Arven, who still looks at her with an expression of astonishment. “How about you invite your friends over for dinner? It’s been a while since we’ve had company over.”

And I don’t want family game night , she whispers to him quietly, bringing the hand that once supported her cheek to cover her mouth from Turo.

Arven laughs, truly laughs. 

“Yeah, I can send a text over. I’d… like that.” He has a feeling that nothing has changed with his friends, that they have surely stayed the same in this universe and have not deviated from the ones that he knows. From the brief moment that he scrolled past their conversations, he felt the same warmth in his chest that he did in his world. There is a relief that blossoms through his system, and he suddenly cannot wait to bolt back up the stairs and check in on them.

Turo huffs, giving his son a pat on his back before his steps rescind into the living room. He hears the sound of a door opening – perhaps a coat closet – before his father speaks from the other room. “Do either of you need anything while I’m out?”

“Grab some extra Zinc, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“...Really?”

“No.”

He hears his father’s sneakers squeak against the floors, having replaced his house slippers with something more acceptable for public wear. He can admit that it is a bit comical: the silence in the kitchen coupled with the obnoxious creaking of rubber shoes against hardwood floors. Mabostiff lets out a soft bark from his place on the couch, undoubtedly from Turo petting him a quick goodbye before he walks towards the front door.

There is a quick ‘ see you later ’ – and then it is quiet .

Arven feels defeated, having just convinced himself to live in the moment and soak whatever domestic bliss he can from his family, but not having the courage to look up from his sandwich and meet the eyes of his mother. His leg shakes underneath the table, restlessly bouncing in place as his mind scours for something – anything – to say to her. The only words that want to formulate on his tongue and be let loose are questions that he angrily asked her photo on the published archeology article online.

Why did you leave us?

Did I do something wrong?

What did I do, Mamá? What did I do that was so terrible, that you…

Sada abruptly sits up from her seat, and he is terrified at the prospect of having voiced his thoughts out loud. He opens his mouth to speak but is quickly silenced by the wave of her hand. “ Relájate ! Finish up your sandwich. I figured I’d make myself useful and get some dishes done.” There is no disgust, no horror, and no offense written on her face; just a warm smile and soft eyes. He relaxes in his seat, picking up the sandwich and taking a few, deep breaths – his thoughts were never voiced out, and he silently thanks his pursed lips for staying pursed.

She does as she says she will, and the sounds of the kitchen sink running and dishes being clinked around fill the otherwise silent pause that fills the kitchen nook. He cannot help but continue to bounce his leg, thinking of something other than his and his father’s abandonment to talk about; it would be unfair, to ask her if she has thought about leaving before - if she would have left them in a blink of an eye as she did in his time. Has she? He bites his tongue and swallows the thought down his throat; what would have had to change, for her to have not left?

The sandwich is three bites away from being finished, and he stuffs the rest of it into his mouth like a Greedent on a good day. He cannot just sit there and watch Sada, he realizes; no, that would be weird. His hand is placed on his trembling knee, and he forces his body to listen and push himself up to stand. An empty plate is held in his other hand; stop shaking – you’re pathetic ; as he walks towards his mother and stands beside her.

“Can I… put this down?” His voice is small, and he hates himself for it. He reminds himself of a child, stupid and dumb and useless and–... He stops himself there, realizing that he is gritting his teeth as his mother hums in approval, wordlessly taking the plate out of his hand and dropping it into soapy water. If she realizes that he is not himself, then she does not say anything; he knows that she is observant ( she has to be; she’s a Professor, right? ), and perhaps there is still a barbed tongue behind her lips that waits to call him out on his bullshit .

Arven starts moving before she notices how he stands there uncomfortably. His body moves on its own accord, rolling up the sleeves past his elbows and walking around Sada to grab a kitchen towel that hangs on the oven handle. There has to be something that he can do that won’t be a fuck-up, and he decides that drying dishes is enough of an excuse to keep himself busy. Anything less, and he would probably find some way to make her want to leave him again .

“I hope you weren’t looking forward to game night ,” his mother snorts and looks at him with the same teal eyes that he has. “Your father convinced me to play a round of Uno last night before you came home. Do you know how boring Uno is with two people? Combined with the fact that he’s the world’s sorest loser? Ugh.” She hands him a plate that he carefully dries.

He notes that even though she is complaining about Turo, the smile on her face does not falter and does not disappear. The golden ring around her finger catches his eye when he looks down to collect the next, clean dish; it has started slipping off from being hit with water and soap, revealing a white line underneath. She has worn the ring long enough to etch it into her sun-kissed skin; he wonders if his father has the same mark on his left hand.

The dried dishes are stacked on the counter beside him and he continues his work, eyes darting around the cupboards in the kitchen to best guess where the dishes are kept. This is not his kitchen, not the same Lighthouse that he had grown up in. Turo – the one that he knows, the one whose robot told him of the love he supposedly had for him – has only ever owned two dishes in his life; one for himself and one for his son, always washed and dried in the same evening to be re-used the next. This Turo has a home , a wife , and a son ; he has a kitchen that has more than enough cupboards to keep Arven guessing.

They work in unison, like a well-oiled machine that continues running even after it has been used for so long. She makes a note about how much more efficient this is and how she’s thankful for his help; he reaches out and opens cabinets when she leans over to start scrubbing away at burnt eggs on an iron pan, hurriedly looking for where <s>her</s> their dry dishes go before she notices his struggle. To her, he is the son that she has always known, the son that has grown up in this Lighthouse; not some… some boy who is desperately grabbing at the snippets of information she gives him of the life that he supposedly has. She mentions something about leaving his bedroom door open when he has his first guest over tonight, and he wonders with a red face who she is referring to.

By the time he has run through all of his three ( four? What was his name… Flaco? Florian? ) options, the dishes are all done and he is hanging the kitchen towel back up on the oven handle. He cannot imagine ruining their friendship with something as complex as a relationship – no, not when he’s known them for… For what? A handful of months? The events at Area Zero have only happened so long ago; going as far as having to keep his door open with one of them is simply unimaginable.

In his deep thought, he does not realize that he follows Sada out of the kitchen and past the living room after she beckons him to do so. The change of scenery hits him suddenly, and he drags himself out of the stupor he has made for himself and back to the present – back to a living room that looks like it has been lived in , to walls that are decorated with family photos that he has no memories of being in, to a home that is his home. He realizes that they are headed to the master bedroom, where he wonders if he can learn more about his parents without being too obvious about it.

There are inferences that he can make as he steps through the threshold – like how they both make enough money to afford expensive sheets and an Alolan king bed. He can tell whose side of the bed is whose by what they have on their nightstands; his father’s practically bursting with modern-looking accessories, while his mother’s has crumpled papers all over and an older-looking alarm clock. The sight only brings him to believe that he truly was the reason that his mother left; they are able to love each other even through the vast differences, and only with the life that they’ve created, do they draw apart.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Sada remarks as she leads them both into a large bathroom. He has to stop himself from gawking at how much space there is. Double sinks and both a walk-in shower and tub? It hurts him to think about how they have renovated the Lighthouse so much, how everything is so different . The size of the room is half of what he grew up with. He pulls himself out of his daze when she turns around, concern written all over her features; she expresses more than his father does, he notes.

“I was just… thinking about some stuff. That’s all.” It is not a lie, nor is it the whole truth. He avoids looking into her teal eyes, afraid that he is one deep thought away from telling her everything. She moves to rest the back of her hand against his forehead, and he tries not to melt into her touch. He has never had a mother. “...School project,” he blurts out as an excuse.

Sada narrows her eyes up at him, bringing her hand back to rest on her side. He feels himself shrink underneath her glare, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head downwards without meeting her eyes. Does it make him look guilty, he wonders, when he refuses to look at her? 

“ School project ,” she repeats, and he immediately thinks that he is done for. His jig is up and he has to confess – he has to tell her that he’d woken up in her son’s body, his own body in a pool of sweat. He has to tell her that his father is not the same father that he has known all his life; that he lives and breathes and actually talks to him like he is a human being. He has to tell her that he only recognizes her from a photo that he saw seven years ago in some journal, that she left her family through a yellow sticky note. He has to tell her, he has to tell her, he has to tell her.

“Go sit.” His mother rolls her eyes and says something about teenage boys being teenage boys underneath her breath. She starts to rummage through a counter and gestures to the edge of the bathtub, where his legs walk him over to. For a moment, he is confused; he has never had a mother to cut his hair before, only having relied on his own pair of scissors and a vague video tutorial before. He puts two and two together when her hand returns to his shoulder and presses down, guiding him to sit on the edge before she steps in to stand behind him.

There is a blue towel that is draped over his shoulders. He holds the corners of it to keep it in place, loosening his hold when he feels his hair being lifted up from underneath it. He tries to be considerate, leaning back so that whatever she cuts off – he hopes that he’s kept his hair at the same length in this universe – can fall into the bathtub, but she puts a hand behind his head and pushes him forward. He is being too obvious; she has to know that there is something wrong.

“Look,” she starts, “you don’t have to tell me everything. That’s fine – your privacy is your privacy, and I respect that.” Her hands start combing through his hair again, and he closes his eyes at her touch. “But you’ve been acting off since I got home. I just… need to know if you’re alright . I’m worried, Arvie.”

There it is – there’s the guilt.

I’m not alright.

“...I’m sorry. I… didn’t mean to worry you,” he forces out, and at least he is telling the entire truth this time. He feels Sada go through the knots in his hair and expects to feel the pain of his hair being tugged on – but no, she is careful and gentle with her touch, as if she has had exactly seventeen-and-some years to learn how to get through the mess that is his hair. “I’m okay, though. I’m not hurt or… or anything.”

“Is it drugs?”

Arven’s brows furrow and he turns around in disbelief. He catches the worried look on her face before it is replaced with irritation, her hand clamping on top of his head and turning him back around so that she can resume her work. “Drugs?” He repeats incrediously. “No, that’s disgusting! I don’t even know where I’d get them!” He wonders if he – the… other he? – has ever given her enough reason to suspect drug use, or if this was just her overreacting? 

“So it isn’t drugs.” She does not have any reason not to  believe in his words and lets out a breath of relief. “Good… good. Okay. That’s great.” Her voice sounds as if she is convincing herself that he is fine, that there is no justifiable reason for her to worry about his odd behavior. He tightens the grip that he has on the towel, knuckles white underneath terry cloth; he feels awful for the way that she has reacted, for the way that he had to defend himself against accusatory words that have never been thrown at him before.

The air between them has become still, weighing down the guilt that he feels onto his shoulders and making his chest constrict at how quiet she has become. He thinks of the grin that he had seen on her face earlier – the same one that he has inherited from her; he cannot justify telling her everything, not when he has been robbed of a family for so long and not when he wants to feel loved for a little while longer. Instead, he tries to find a way to phrase his predicament without… without telling her that he is not her son .

When he hears the sound of scissors slowly snipping away at his blond locks, he clears his throat and prepares himself for the worst.

“I, uh… had this odd dream. I’ve kinda been shaken up by it this whole time.” He falsely admits, taking a second to notice how she pauses for a second before continuing. “Just a big ‘ what-if ’, you know? I… dreamt of this universe where you were gone and Dad…” He stops himself and tries to think of a way to play it off without sounding authentic – without sounding like he didn’t have either parent by his side as he grew up. “Dad was gone, too, I guess.”

His mother stays silent with the exception of a small hum.

“You left,” he says, all too painfully. “You left us – me and Dad. You wrote him… us…? – a note, and then just disappeared. The only other time I saw you was through some Archeology Today digest online with your picture on the front page.” He can taste iron in his mouth from how he has been biting his tongue to remind himself that he is not here to tell her about his empty childhood, but of a dream that he had. “That threw Dad into his work, I guess. He was gone, but he wasn’t… gone gone. I taught myself how to cook and how to divide fractions.”

Arven does not mention Mabostiff. He doesn’t know how she would react to her… dream-self being less of a constant figure in his life than his own Pokémon. “Dad and I exchanged emails for a while. He worked in the Crater –” 

Does that place exist in this universe?

“Stopped talking to me when I turned… what, twelve? No ‘ how are you ’s, no birthday texts, no… No nothing. Just me sending him emails until I realized he wouldn’t respond to a single one ‘em.” He hates that he has to re-live these feelings, that he has to remind himself of how he was blessed with such a terrible father. He feels his hand tremble slightly as he continues to hold the towel closed in front of him. “I was angry the whole time – the whole time I dreamt. Y’know, not… not having a Dad sucked. The closest I’ve ever gotten to one was Director Clavell, who was nice enough to drop by once a week to make sure I wasn’t starving or whatever.” There is a wave of disappointment that drafts through him when he realizes that he will never be able to open up like this again and that the only time he ever will is when he has to fabricate his life into sounding like a dream. 

“Then I found out that he died.” Sada’s fingers pause once again. “He… died in the Crater and I didn’t know until five years after. Dad was gone and I was… I was angry at him for being gone without realizing that he wasn’t even alive! I was angry at a dead man.” In the sea of words that he finds himself drowning in, he does not notice that she has stopped cutting his hair, instead combing her fingers through in an effort to comfort him. “I’m used to being alone – in the dream, in the… dream,  I was used to being alone. But then when I found out that Dad died, it felt like a new kind of alone. Reality kinda sunk in, but I wasn’t… surprised by it. Probably should have been, considering Dad died – but I felt like I’ve known it for a while.”

Am I…

Am I crying?

That’s so embarrassing .

“I started looking up your name after I found out that he was… gone. Found more articles about you traveling all over the world and discovering some new kinds of fossils wherever you went. No other photos of you other than the Archeology Today one, so I only… I only had one photo to go off of, to remember you by.” His voice is quiet as he continues to hold his head up high, not once moving from where she instructed him to keep at an angle. He doesn’t want to disappoint her – he wants to make her proud . “You seemed happy, though – in the interviews that you had. I think the one that really got me was where you lied and said you didn’t have a kid. Why did you …?”

He tries to sound out a chuckle, to make it seem as though he was fine , but his laughter comes out as a strangled sound. He hears his mother put the scissors down and away. Is she tired of him already? He brings a hand to cover his mouth, to cover a sob that rips through his throat. He’s only been here for less than a day and she already wants to leave him – again .

Arven feels an arm wrap around him from behind, carefully pulling him back so that he can rest his weight on her. He clenches his teeth underneath his hand, closing his eyes and being unable to stop his tears that pour down in torrents. Over the sound of his own sobs, he can hear her repeat the same words that his father comforted him with earlier that morning, telling him that he was alright . He can vaguely make out a few more words that she says against the top of his head, pressing kisses into his hair.

“I’m here . I’m here .”

His hand forgets the towel that it is holding onto, instead reaching up and grasping her forearm that laid across his chest. He holds onto her for the first time since he was five, squeezing her arm in his hand in fear that she will be ripped away from him, that she will be gone when he stops fucking crying. There is another arm that wraps around him, and her hand which wears a golden ring rests on top of his. The feeling of her pressing kisses against his head and the thumb that rubs comforting circles on the back of his hand is too much – too much, too much, too much. He feels another sob bubbling from inside his chest, and he feels pathetic . Pitiful .

How can she be proud of him when he is the way that he is?

“I’m not going anywhere, my sweet boy. I’m staying. I’m here .” She is – She is here, holding him in her arms and rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. She comforts him the only way she knows she can, as a mother to her child. He has to remind himself to calm down, feeling his heart pound against his chest and his tears growing heavier with every word that she comforts him with; he can’t embarrass himself more than he already has. She cannot love him if he keeps crying. He is a failure in her eyes, and he knows it.

Where were you all this time?

You left, you left, you LEFT! YOU LEFT .

Did… Did you ever t-think about us?? 

No… No, no you didn’t. You told the world that I don’t exist .

“ Mom ,” he cries and forgets all about the taste of iron in his mouth, forgetting about biting his tongue and the inside of his cheek. “Why d-did you…? Why did you leave ?” He asks her as the hand that grips her arm trembles, resulting in her hand intertwining their fingers – grounding him, back to her, back to where he sits on a stranger’s his mother’s bathroom tub, being held like a child who has never been held before. 

“ Mamá , why ?”

Sada squeezes his hand and holds him closer. He wonders if she has considered the thought in this universe – and if she has, how close she had been to leave them. Had it been a simple, fleeting thought? Or was she halfway out the door when she realized that she couldn’t ? Perhaps she never did think about disappearing and instead wanted this family for the longest time. He feels her ring against the back of his hand and wonders about his father – if maybe… maybe he wanted to leave, too? If she had just run out the door faster than he could. If neither of them wanted him in the first place.

“I don’t know,” she tells him softly over his sobs, “I don’t know why I would have left, baby. I could never leave you or Turo. Oh , you mean so, so much to me, baby.” Her words mean to comfort him, but they fail to, and he is left crying harder than he did this morning on his father’s shoulder. “...I’m sorry that you had to go through that, Arvie. I’m sorry . I’m here, I’m here – I’m here now.”

His mother presses another kiss against his hair, and he feels his hand stop trembling underneath hers.