Chapter Text
After everything, Lance goes home.
The word holds an uncertain weight in the back of his mind. Blackthorn was once his home, only for a time. The same was true for certain other places. But he doesn’t want to think about the thick, green canopy of trees and the soft rushing of a peaceful stream. Doesn’t want to think about the soft chirps of little pokémon hiding in the grass. Methodically - as he has practiced time and time again - he pushes those memories out of his head.
He clings closer to his Dragonite as they soar through the cold, night sky. She’s worried about him, he can tell. He soothes a hand over her head, hoping the action is enough to comfort her. Below them, Blackthorn City comes into view, a scattering of faint lights nestled among the harsh face of the mountains.
They land a ways off from the town center. He brushes a hand down Dragonite’s arm in thanks before returning her to her poké ball. It’s late, and the town is quiet. Blackthorn has never been like Goldenrod or Saffron; it was a reprieve from the blasted noise of urban life. He makes his way through the streets in silence.
He’s not here to settle down. There could never be any peace for a man like him. He’s long gotten rid of such delusions. He can be here for one thing only.
He hopes it hurts this time.
But before that, he needs to make a stop. He wouldn’t go to his grandfather first, or visit the Dragon’s Den. There was only one person he could possibly wish to see first.
At her house, a light on the second floor is on. He knocks. Hears the thud, thud of steps descending on stairs. A pause - probably a glance through the peephole. Followed by the frantic, hurried metal clangs of locks being undone. Then the door opens, and for the first time in many years, Lance finds himself face to face with his cousin.
Clair is in her pajamas (blue, with a Horsea pattern), her mouth open in shock. She looks… hurt? Devastated? He doesn’t quite know what to say. Maybe he assumed that Clair would do all the talking, since she never shut her mouth when they were younger. He folds his arms, trying to give off an air of nonchalance, but all that does is probably make him look smaller.
“You…” Clair starts. She clamps her mouth shut, her lower lip trembling. “It’s really fucking late, Lance.”
He sets his jaw. “I know.”
“I had a really stressful day. Grandpa kept ordering me around and I had to take care of business at the Gym. There are some windows that need repair because the last challenger was too careless, and I’m just trying to take care of everything, but everything keeps happening at the same time.”
He nods, not knowing what else to do. “I see.”
“I was trying to relax. I really want to get a good night’s sleep tonight. I haven’t slept properly in ages.”
He continues nodding, lowering his gaze.
“And you think,” she hisses the words out of gritted teeth, bristling, a tight, shaking grip on the door, “that you can just waltz in here after I’ve looked for you everywhere for years, after you’ve purposefully evaded me again and again?”
He blinks down at the ground, brow furrowed, and braces himself.
But the deserved rejection doesn’t come. A deep, resigned sigh. Clair swings the door open wider - a détente, or a mercy - and motions for him to come in. “Come on,” she says, turning away to walk back inside. “You fucking asshole.”
Lance steps across the threshold and follows her in, an apology stuck in his throat.
When he was a child, his parents would bring him to Blackthorn every summer. He always complained; the forest was perfect in the summer, and he hated missing it. The lush, green trees gave cool shade, the streams were refreshing, and the butterfree were always more active in the warm seasons.
Blackthorn was a different world entirely. The sun beat down harshly on the barren soil. There was no safe hideaway here, as was abundant in his forest. His father told him that dragon trainers were strong, because they had to survive such a severe environment. He always thought that was unfair. After all, his Dratini loved the forest as much as he did; why should she have to suffer a cruel home?
Worse, they had to stay in his grandfather’s house. It was large and intimidating, nothing like their homey cabin in the forest. And he loathed his grandfather, because he never let Lance catch a break. If it wasn’t training, it was chores in the Den. This much, he would never say out loud, however; he knew his parents would be upset. So instead he expressed his discontent in other ways.
“I hate it here,” Lance groaned out, lying face-up on the wooden porch overlooking the garden. He thought it was a poor excuse for a garden. It had no flowers, no trees, only an arrangement of stones and boulders amongst sand. “I want to go home.”
His mother let out a weary sigh next to him. She was sitting and working on some sewing project. “Don’t say that, dear. This is also your home. Your ancestors lived here. You can take some pride in that.”
Lance rolled over and propped up his chin into his hand. He’d already read the book he brought with him, cover to cover. “But it’s so boring.”
“Look at Dratini. She’s having fun.” His mother gestured to where the little dragon was slithering between the garden rocks in the sand. “Pokémon can be quite skilled at adapting. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“She’s just bored.” He blew his hair out of his face in a single huff. “She told me.” Earlier that morning, Dratini told him that she wished she could go swimming in the ponds of their forest.
He noticed how his mother tried to hide her smile. She was always proud of his connection with his pokémon. But truth be told, he didn’t understand why she wanted him to like this place. He had an inkling that she didn’t like Blackthorn any more than he did. Grandfather was always rude to her, or dismissive. Sometimes he would hear his parents talking about it at night, in hushed tones. He would press his ear to the door of his parents’ bedroom, and listen to his mother’s soft sobs as his father consoled her.
Grandfather wasn’t kind to his father, either. He always had a snide comment aimed at him. His uncle, the gym leader, always received compliments on his “dedication to duty” and “commitment to family,” which always seemed to have the backhanded implication that his father did not have the same qualities. Lance was young, but he was old enough now to have heard the stories about the disapproval surrounding his parents’ marriage. Even if his father was the firstborn, he was not the preferred son.
Before he could let out another sigh, he heard his father’s footsteps coming. Lance looked up to find him leaning against the screen door that opened up to the veranda. His father tilted his head at him with a cheeky smile, his cape falling over his shoulders. “Come on, kiddo. You know the drill.”
Lance groaned. “Do I have to?”
“You know it’s your grandfather’s rule.” Even if he was forcing him to do something annoying, his father’s voice remained sympathetic. “Come on. Your cousin’s outside waiting for you.”
Begrudgingly, he got up, and reached a hand out to Dratini, who climbed up his arm and settled around his shoulders. He turned to peck his mother on the cheek, who smoothed down the side of his face with a gentle hand. “Good luck with training today, my little friend. Be careful.”
Then his mother twisted away from him and coughed violently, deep and hollow-sounding, into the crook of her elbow. Lance’s heart dropped. “Mom?” He tried to touch her, but she held out her hand - stop. She didn’t cease coughing. His mouth set into a deep frown. “Maybe I should stay with you.”
His father knelt down next to her, placing a big hand on her back. “Lance, I’ll take care of your mother. Don’t worry. Go on, take Clair to the Den.”
Lance didn’t stop frowning. Now he really didn’t want to leave. At the same time, he knew how hard his parents had been trying to help him get used to Blackthorn, and he supposed the routine was part of that. And he didn’t want to give them another thing to stress over. “Okay,” he muttered hesitantly.
His mother took a deep breath, her coughing fit having stopped now. She tried to give him a weak smile. “When you get back, we’ll practice your sewing.”
I hope she’s okay, Dratini told him as they made their way across the long corridors of his grandfather’s house.
Clair was outside the gate, a small blob of blue on the sidewalk. She’s hugging her Horsea close to her chest. Lance walked up behind her and tugged on her ponytail.
“Hey!” she cried, hand flinging up to the top of her head. “Why are you so annoying?!” Her Horsea, defensive of her trainer, blew a few bubbles at him.
Lance snorted and swatted the bubbles away. “Why are you so short?”
Clair pouted, putting one tiny hand on her hip. “My mom says girls grow up faster. I’ll be taller than you eventually.”
“Whatever. Like that’ll ever happen.” He ruffled her head, much to her annoyance. It was funny to get a rise out of Clair. She always overreacted. And, well, no matter how much he teased her, she still always clung to him like a big baby.
He hated Blackthorn’s barrenness. He hated how his parents were treated here. But he didn’t mind Clair.
He held his hand out to her, and couldn’t help how his mouth quirked up into a smile. “After training, let’s get some ice cream, okay?”
Clair’s pudgy face broke out into a huge, beaming grin. They walked to the Dragon’s Den together, hand in hand.
Lance blinks awake to a strangely familiar room. He drags a hand over his face. He’s lying on a messy couch in a living room.
The first thing he feels, as he does every morning, is the overwhelming weight of an ache deep below his muscles. It feels the heaviest around his neck and shoulders. His mornings hold the worst of the aches, as he’s forced to contend with the fact that he was body and flesh. It would subside into a dull, pulsating feeling of fatigue throughout the rest of the day.
Little else is as much of a bane in his pathetic life as the never-ending malaise he is subject to every single day. He’s tried multiple things to get rid of it in the past, but none worked. It started when he woke up alone on Cerise Island, singed and battered by a million volts of electric power, and has never left him since.
As he does every day, he forces himself to get up and take in his surroundings. He has no choice but to work through the pain, after all. Across him is a fireplace; on the mantle are framed pictures of a blue-haired family and dragon pokémon.
He knows Clair’s house. It was her parents’. Unlike him and his father, Clair and her parents didn’t have to stay in their grandfather’s big house. He remembers coming here with Clair after training, feeling more at ease in the smaller home than he ever did at his grandfather’s house and its strict rules. On the low table next to the couch, he used to help Clair with her homework. On the television, Clair would pester him to watch her favorite shows with her. He could lie on the couch and put his feet up without anyone snapping at him to behave.
It’s messier than he remembers, though. There’s an open, half-eaten bag of chips on the table. Annoyed, Lance reaches out and folds it up. Of course Clair would still be a slob after all these years.
A rattle from a pokéball on his belt. He holds it closer to his face and sees Dragonite smiling up at him. Good morning! Will we be able to play with Clair’s Kingdra later? He can’t help the soft smile across his face. Yes, later.
His eyes land on a particular frame on the mantle. He picks it up and traces across the faces behind the glass. It was a memento of a picnic: four blue-haired people, including one child, and two redheads sticking out like two sore thumbs. Thanks to his mother, he never inherited the famous Blackthorn blue. Clair, looking to be about toddler-aged, carried by her father, with jam and crumbs over her mouth. His five-year old self, lounging in his mother’s arms, looking away from the camera. His father, grinning widely, with a hand around his mother’s shoulders, and a finger poking at his son’s cheek. He doesn’t quite remember being that small.
He hears Clair’s loud footfalls on the staircase. Of course her stomping hasn’t changed either. He puts the photo down, as if he never touched it. “Hey,” she says, coming closer. A toothbrush is shoved in his face. “Here. You can use the bathroom.”
Lance takes the toothbrush gingerly. “Thanks.” His mouth did feel fuzzy and disgusting.
After he brushes his teeth, he splashes cold water onto his face. As droplets rivet down his cheeks, he faces himself in the mirror. All he can see is a man who doesn’t deserve anything.
No distractions. Don’t forget what you came here for.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Clair is seated on one of the living room arm chairs. She’s still wearing her Horsea pajamas. As she spots him, she straightens her posture and frowns. “Whether you like it or not, Lance, we’re going to have to talk.”
Lance lowers himself into the opposite armchair with a sigh. “Fine.”
“Well, where have you been?”
“Just around.” Clair glowers at him. Fine. “Something came up recently, with the legendary pokémon Arceus, and…” He doesn’t feel like getting into it right now. “It was an entire thing.”
Clair folds her arms. “What, did a ten year-old beat you up again?”
“No,” Lance snarls. He won’t bring up how he did get pretty battered during the whole ordeal, though. “I helped put it to rights, with the aid of some Pokédex holders. Not that one,” he adds quickly, after seeing Clair’s questioning expression. He leans his chin into his palm, propped up on the armrest. “Besides, it was an eleven year-old back then.”
Clair scoffs, a disbelieving look on her face. “Why didn’t you call me back? I tried to find you.” Her eyes narrow. “And did you just say Arceus?”
Lance shrugs. “I thought it would be better to talk to you in person.”
Her face drops to a resigned look, as if accepting that Lance wouldn’t be very chatty this morning. “You know that we have to go see Grandpa, right?”
“I know.” And he was counting on it.
Clair sighs, and gets up. “Well, let me just get ready, then we’ll leave.” She passes Lance, ponytail trailing behind her, and he can’t help the question that bubbles out of his lips.
“Clair?”
She stops and turns to him, one eyebrow arched in question. When he doesn’t immediately respond, she raises the other brow incredulously.
“I…” Say it. Just say it. You left her for years. She’s the only one who cared about you, the only one who looked for you, and you left her for years. “I’m going to clean up the house while I’m here. This place is a mess.”
Clair’s brows drop into a furrow and she growls at him. “Asshole,” he hears her mutter as she climbs up the stairs.
He droops backward into the chair, feeling severely dissatisfied with himself. If he had been younger, it would have been his pride in the way. But now, after years of defeat, he knows that it’s merely cowardice.
His father was never the same after his mother died.
Their cabin in the forest was once a happy place. There was often music playing from his mother’s piano; on certain days, she would sit Lance down and teach him how to glide his fingers across the keys. The house overlooked a wide pond, where on other days, his father would cheerfully drag him down to fish at the small wooden deck he built. Fishing teaches patience, his father would always say, wagging his bushy brows, which is something that a certain someone sorely needs.
With parents like these, the pokémon were happy too. Mother and father raised him to treat them as friends. And the other pokémon in the forest were his playmates. In hindsight, maybe that was why he had so much trouble communicating with other humans growing up.
(He doesn’t want to think about any of that now. He can’t think about any of that now.)
Over the years, his mother grew sicker and sicker. An irrevocable part of Lance’s childhood was watching his mother shrink, her hair gradually losing its luster, her voice slowly growing more hollow. He was only a child, and it scared him.
On the days his mother’s coughing fits were too harsh on her, he would shed away any childish act of pretending to be cooler or more mature than he really was. He would hug her tight, or bring her a glass of water, and say, “Let me help, mom, please.”
But his mother would always gently pat his head, give him a soft smile, and tell him, “I’m fine, please don’t worry about me. Go play.”
The pollution from the ongoing construction on the other end of the forest made matters worse. They were building a new apartment complex in Viridian City, and somebody made the decision that a few dozen trees had to be cut down to make space.
When she finally passed away just a few months before his tenth birthday, his father stopped smiling. He stopped getting out of bed. Lance would peek into his parents’ bedroom - wrong without his mother - to tell his father that he was hungry, only to watch him stare blankly at the ceiling.
He didn’t know what else to do except creep away from the door, defeated. As he took another step back, he bumped into his father’s Dragonite, who looked down on him with melancholy eyes, asking, Is he still like that?
Lance was lucky that his father’s Dragonite kept a clearer mind, and was protective of him. For nearly a month, Lance and Dratini relied on the food Dragonite went out to gather for them, and whatever Lance could scrounge up from the kitchen.
Lance fed his father small berries, holding each one to his mouth because he wouldn’t get up, begging him to chew and swallow. It made him feel older than he ever was.
He learned how to use the stove, with Dragonite’s supervision. He burned himself for the first time, and learned that he couldn’t use his powers on himself; Dragonite helped him bandage it clumsily.
He nursed sick pokémon back to health, those whose homes were destroyed by the construction site. The pokémon in the forest knew his house as a safe place to ask for help, and Lance never let them down.
He washed all the dishes by himself and cleaned the floors, kept everything neat and tidy, just like his mother would have preferred it.
But he never touched the piano. It hurt too much to even look at it for too long.
Inside him, there was darkness building up: rage, at the selfishness of humans who cared for profit above pokémon and the environment they called home. Despair, at the uselessness of his own ability to change his situation. Loneliness, at the loss of his mother and the neglect of his father. As more and more pokémon came to his doorstep in tears, he cried with them.
Eventually, his uncle came. Just him; no whiny baby cousin in tow. Lance couldn’t decide if he looked furious or sad or disappointed. Maybe it was all three. His sudden appearance was a shock; Lance hadn’t seen anyone else since his mother’s funeral.
The first thing he did was make some warm soup for Lance after hearing his stomach rumble. The second thing he did was storm into his parents’ room.
Lance knelt with his ear behind the door, Dragonite and Dratini next to him. You can’t go on like this, Damon, he heard his uncle say. You have a child!
His father must have assented after a few hours, because by the end of the day his uncle was helping the both of them pack up. Confused and betrayed, Lance couldn’t stop asking his uncle questions as he folded his clothes and sorted his books. “But when are we coming back?”
“Maybe in a week or two, kid,” his uncle sighed. He was folding his father’s clothes for him.
The next morning, Lance stood outside the only home he’d ever known, lugging a packed suitcase with two hands. He didn’t have very many belongings in the first place, but he left behind some books inside. They would be coming back anyway, he was promised. He watched as his father locked the door. For some reason, it had a feeling of finality. Lance didn’t like it at all.
He took a deep breath, trying his best to fill his lungs with the forest’s fresh air. The sweet smell of flowers and honey. The low buzz of Beedrill and Butterfree hanging around the trees. The gentle rush of the clear streams.
Who’s going to help them while I’m gone?
Goodbye, forest. Goodbye, friends. On two Dragonites - belonging to his father and his uncle - they flew west towards Blackthorn.
From the sky, looking down at the Viridian Forest in its entirety, he couldn’t help but notice a new construction site being set up, right after the apartment buildings were completed. The trees would be cut down again. The pokémon would be hurt again.
He hugged his Dratini tight. We’ll come back and make them pay, he promised her.
He and his father settled in his grandfather’s house, as they always did when they were in town. His cousin was happy to see him. His grandfather subjected him to a regular routine of rigorous training - the same, he learned, as his father went through, before he relinquished his title as heir to marry his mother. But even here, in the place of his birth, his father withdrew from him, farther and farther away than Lance could ever reach. And god, did Lance try to reach him, even if it hurt.
A week turned into two, then three, then four, and eventually too many to count. Nobody brought him back home to the forest.
There are stares and murmurs from the townsfolk as Lance and Clair make their way towards the Dragon’s Den. Whispers behind hidden hands and disbelieving glances at his red hair. He’s hated here.
He keeps his eyes down to the ground in front of him, resolving not to make eye contact with anyone. Allows their judgment to wash over him as deserved.
Is it truly him?
That’s Lady Clair with…
Lord Lance is…
In the ceremonial hall of the Dragon’s Den, his grandfather waits alongside his aide. As he and Clair come closer, he does his best to carefully, methodically, neutralize the erratic beating of his heart, and the deep, sinking pit in his chest.
He and Clair bow before the Dragon Master, and lower themselves into the formal kneeled sitting position. Traditions like these were drilled into them as part of their training; Lance remembers hating having to maintain the position for extended stretches of time - legs folded, seated on his heels - and receiving a smack on the head from his grandfather if his form slipped short of perfection.
His grandfather mumbles something incomprehensible as always, and his aide translates. “So you’ve returned.”
Lance forces himself to take a breath. “Yes, grandfather.” He leans forward into a deep, prostrating bow. Aching pain flares through his neck and shoulders, aggravated by the position. “I’ve come to take responsibility for my actions. Please advise me. I offer myself to your wisdom.”
He hears Clair choke on a scoff. She’s never seen him do anything like this before. But he has to. There’s nothing else for him to do.
“Which actions are you referring to?” his grandfather’s aide translates.
Lance can’t stop himself from frowning. Must he truly say it out loud? When the whole world would surely never forget what he’s done? “When I… When I attempted to eradicate humanity, grandfather.”
His blood chills at his grandfather’s next words, delivered by his aide.
“But all that is forgiven now, my grandson. It was a mistake committed years ago, for which you have now atoned.”
No. Not this. This can’t be right.
“Yes, it has not escaped me how you have helped save lives in the years since.”
But that was never enough. Whatever he tried to do could never erase what he had done. He needed someone else to make him pay.
“If you’ve come here seeking punishment, the clan will offer no such thing, for there is nothing to atone for.”
He was counting on his grandfather to give him what was due. Who else has shown him such harsh discipline? Where was that now? Why this mercy, now?
“Now that you’ve returned, I will order that your birthright be restored. Lance, you have proven yourself to be the strongest and most capable of our clan. It is only right that you shall be named the Dragon Heir.”
No.
This can’t be right.
Next to him, Clair freezes. He notes the slight tremble of her shoulders, shaking with rage.
It’s supposed to be her. She’s the one who stayed. She took charge of the gym, became a pillar of the community, and grew into a real leader. While Lance was the one who turned his back on everyone. He came here for retribution to be placed upon him. For judgment.
Not to steal his cousin’s future.
His muscles continue to ache, the area around his neck burns. Before he could open his mouth to protest, his grandfather holds up a hand. His aide’s face looks uncomfortable - Lance vaguely notes that he works closely with Clair - but he proceeds to translate the Dragon Master’s words without stammering. “You are undoubtedly the strongest; Clair has never been able to defeat you in a battle. My decision is final. Welcome home, Lance.”
They both leave in silence. Lance doesn’t miss the deep look of betrayal and resentment carved onto Clair’s face.