Chapter Text
Arceus gave you a choice: either you would be sent to Hisui, or Dawn would. The two of you had stumbled into the dimensional rift by happenstance, a one-in-a-billion occurrence, and the creator of all things was desperate for a hero. Only one was needed.
It was no choice at all. So, here you are.
You don’t know a whole lot about Dawn, except that she’s a high schooler who was looking into your university when she fell into the rift with you. She’s young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, which probably makes her an overachiever for having a college visit that soon. She must have been under a lot of pressure, you think. Too much pressure for a kid her age.
Floating in that void, you had asked her if she wanted this. She’d trembled and stuttered and said she would do it if she had to, but looked close to tears.
In short, Dawn seemed like the type who never insisted on anything, let alone her own happiness.
So, you took her place. You were on a dead end history track to rack up debt and work minimum wage anyways, so you figured, why the hell not? Your quarters with the Survey Corps were about the same size as the college dorm, the food was a bit better, and the workload about the same. You accidentally called Cyllene professor more than once, convinced Laventon to let you transcribe for him on days you didn’t feel like doing field work, and generally got by just fine.
Right up until the exile.
In all honesty, you can’t say you didn’t see it coming. The clans were communal, but Jubilife was a powder keg run by a firestarter of a man named Kamado who had exiled people before. You weren’t so arrogant as to think yourself an exception, after all. Nor do innocent as to be unaware of the fact that sometimes you get kicked out or bullied away from places you thought were like home. It had happened before, with friend groups and school organizations, and it sucked every time, but you learned to spot the red flags. You saw it coming, and planned accordingly.
But you had hoped, at least, that the Clans wouldn’t be forbidden from helping you fix the sky.
“It’s just politics,” Irida had said apologetically. “Off the record, I can give you some food for your journey, but if Kamado thinks you’re to blame, I can’t help you without endangering my people. I am sorry, but as their leader, I made a vow that they would come first.”
“Of course. I understand.” Even if, selfishly, you wish that you could come first. You want to be someone’s one and only, first and foremost.
You’re a realist. You don’t flinch when Adaman says the same thing, just gives you some textile goods to keep you warm on your journey and wishes you well. But gods, you want to be selfish for once.
You’re moping, watching a lesbian luxio couple and their shinx kit, when the tap comes on your shoulder.
“Boo! Did I scare you?~”
“I’m homeless now. God won’t answer my calls,” you say flatly, not turning around. You wish you had the energy to engage in Volo’s usual banter, but it seems to have deserted you completely. Which sucks, because Volo is actually pretty fun to hang out with.
Rather than awkwardly trying to comfort you, Volo sets down their pack and sits beside you, limbs folded in politely so as to take up as little space as possible.
“Almighty Sinnoh seems to have abandoned their people entirely,” they say lightly, but you can’t help but notice the underlying bitterness. “Such awful things have been permitted to happen to their people, one might even wonder if such a being still exists.”
You give a choked laugh, remembering how helpless Arceus had acted when forcing you into this ultimatum. As casual as you’d tried to be, it was still really fucked up. You’d been basically kidnapped and forced to fix problems that had nothing to do with you, and you’d only endured it because you were trying to protect a teenager from suffering the same.
“You know what I think? I think Sinnoh’s a little bitch,” you say. “I think they don’t deserve the worship, if they let bullshit like this happen. Augh! How the fuck am I even supposed to fix the sky?”
“Would you like some?” Volo offers you a flask that you can tell is alcohol from the smell. “Technically I’m on the clock, but… you seem as though you could use it.”
“Please. Ah, shit, here.” You take out a loaf of bread from Irida and break it in half, pleasantly surprised to see bits of dried fruit inside. You pass half to Volo. “Don’t drink on an empty stomach, and I’ll share it with you.”
“Who am I to resist your siren song?” Volo winks at you, then chugs a startling amount from the bottle before passing it over to you. They lean back, using their pack as a backrest.
“Damn, didn’t know you could drink like that.” You take a more reasonable swallow, savoring the unfamiliar taste. Mead, maybe? It’s sweet and rich, and goes well with the bread. You’re craving the buzz of drunkenness, though, and take another mouthful before passing it back. The rim of the flask glistens, and you think, an indirect kiss.
“Aha, well, working retail will do that to you. You need something to take the edge off, after all— oh, that’s strong.” They make a face as the alcohol kicks in, a little late. “Wow.”
“Well, work sucks ass.” Maybe it’s the mead, maybe just a placebo, maybe it’s the comfort of speaking with someone relatively unaffiliated, but you’re feeling bold. “All they do is use you up and throw you out. What kind of bullshit is that, huh? There wouldn’t be any kind of edge to take off with alcohol if they just— treated you like a person, not a tool! Sinnoh, the Galaxy Team, they’re all the same! Why is it that everyone thinks they can just use me up and toss me out? It hurts, damnit! I’m sick of this shit!”
“And Sinnoh had promised us— I have seen the writings, the ancient stories of their deeds on our behalf— yet there’s nothing but silence!” Volo suddenly looks self conscious, passing the mead back to you and slipping into a customer service voice. “Ah— my apologies. I hope I haven’t scared you away, aha.”
“You can drop the act. It’s fine if you’re angry, you know.” Why is everyone around you so scared to take up space, to have desires? “Please. Don’t be scared to have emotions around me, okay? Maybe I want someone to burden me with their presence. Sorry, I’m probably not making any sense. You can… leave, if you don’t want to be near me, if I’m too much. If you don’t want to get involved in this whole political nonsense, I mean. Or… with me.”
“Drop… the act?” They look away nervously. “I… don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
“I mean, the one where you pretend you don’t care, like nothing fazes you!” You toss your hands up in exasperation. “I know it does, I know it has to, please, I want you to burden me with your emotions. Am I insane? I’m sorry if I’m insane. I’m sorry if I’m asking too much, I’ve just lost everything and I’m rambling and honestly a little tipsy.”
“Take it.” Volo pushes the flask of mead at you once more, wearing a soft expression you’ve never seen on their face. “I think… you need it more than I do. If you’ve been asked to fix the sky, that is.”
Right. You’re a little off balance, and the mead is definitely loosening your tongue, but you’re starting to get a taste for it. Another swig, and you set it down, trying to wash it down with more bread. It’s kicking in faster than you’d like, a lot faster than beer might.
“If you’re going to leave me,” you say, turning away to hide the fact that you’re a horribly emotional drunk and starting to cry, “please do it now. Don’t lead me on. I’ll fix the sky, I’ll find a way, I always do, but I cannot endure one more fucking abandonment. So just… go. You’ve been nice, but you’ve got a job to get back to, I know you do.”
Another tap on your shoulder— then an entire hand, just resting there. Your whole body feels tense, acutely aware of human touch in a way that makes you feel embarrassingly touch starved. Volo moves closer, dry grass crunching under their knees.
“What Ginter doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” they say, close enough to make you shiver. “I… don’t know if you’ll really want me. But I’ll help you, so long as you’re willing to have me.”
Before they can change their mind, you practically lunge, tugging them into a hug. They lose their balance, tumbling to the dry grass with you on top, and stare at you through their bangs. The two of you are so close, your breath mingling, that you can count the grey flecks in their pale eyes, see how their left pupil is sort of shaped like a wonky star. Your hands are trapped under their back, their limbs splayed like they’re trying to avoid contact with you as much as possible.
“I— I’m sorry,” they stammer, looking away from you. “This is— inappropriate of me—”
“I want you to be inappropriate with me. I want you to want things,” you say firmly.
“You are homeless,” they say, looking firmly at some point over your shoulder. “I would be remiss if I were to take advantage of your desperation for my own desires.”
“And what if I was the one taking advantage of you?” you challenge. Volo doesn’t move, and you don’t get up either. Can’t, so long as they’ve got you basically pinned. “Why are you so convinced of your own predatory nature that you’ve starved yourself down to nothing?”
“You’re drunk,” they say. “I’m drunk. I… don’t want this. Not like this.”
You are pretty drunk. It occurs to you, then, that you’ve just escalated from ‘let’s fix the sky together’ to ‘I want to be inappropriately close to you and start challenging your assumptions.’ Normally, you at least buy someone dinner in between.
“Right. Uh, sorry.” You swallow hard. “I’m… kind of stuck. Mind shifting a bit so I can get my arms back?”
The two of you untangle yourselves, both apologizing, and then you’re left awkwardly separated on the grass. The lesbian luxio have started licking their kit clean, and a flock of starly flies above.
“I’m drunk,” you echo. “You don’t want this. So… I’ll back off. Uh, about the sky…”
“I want to help you with the sky. But… please slow down a bit, all right? Let’s talk when you’re sober.” They give you a brief smile, cheeks flushed from alcohol, and release their togekiss. Probably to defuse the tension between the tension, you guess.
You release your own Typhlosion, trying to mimic whatever social game is happening right now. He nuzzles you, ghostly flames rising from his fur, and you laugh.
“Aw, hi there sweet boy! Ha, I’ve had a little too much mead and made things awkward, oops. But hey, we’re going to patch up the sky! And then laugh in that bitch’s face,” you say, burying your face in your partner’s fur. It's warm, and you decide that a nap sounds good right about now. You've gone past buzzed and into the unpleasantly drunk territory, and you haven't slept well since the sky turned. If a nap doesn't fix you, you'll figure it out tomorrow.