Red is tending to Pikachuâs aches in his lap when sounds of active movement descend from the guestâs room at the top of the stairs. The four-beat thump of a feline dismount from bed-height accompanies human footsteps and the hiss of a sink filling with water. She can feel the return of that wire-twist of tension to Redâs posture, this Torren figure upset his balance like no one else Sorcha had seen, and yet he seemed willing to endure it for some reason.
Setting aside her cup, she leans their upper arms together to shield her signing from the stairwell. âSaint can handle your guest while weâre out.â She brings her index fingers parallel and pushes them forward in a line at chest height, reels back her hands, and then follows the path again with closed fists. âHeâll be attended, and secured.â She leans until the sides of their heads meet with a gentle thunk and then sits forward to retrieve her drink.
Tossing back her hair and raising the teacup, she can feel his gaze linger on her with more than his usual intensity, as heavy as the steam on her skin. She lowers her eyelids and takes in everything about him in her periphery in turn, his posture, the fond look on his face before he raises the cup to his lips with fidgeting fingers.
Heâs brimming with affection and she drinks it up. She gives a bright laugh at the feeling of Redâs thumbprint smudging the condensation on her cheek to wetness. The sound gets swallowed up in kisses and a gestured apology, and she tick-tock taps his chest with her right index finger, âLater, later.â Cantrip takes the chance to dart onto Sorchaâs lap as Red lowers the blanket. Thereâs a wave of laughter at the sight of 'Tripâs fur puffing up with static that discharges almost instantly to Pikachuâs tail as they follow Red, giving a little bit of pep to their step.
Tristan and Coral are continuing their contest gossip and doing meal prep for the group, Sorcha darts in with a kiss to each of their foreheads and scoops up bowls of chopped berries to bring to the kitchen counter. A qualot berry, pitted and split into fifths the size and thickness of fingers, is packed into a food processor along with starchy ganlon cubes. They release an almost citric zest into the air as she pulps them and then folds them into a granola and yogurt mixture waiting in rows of cups in the fridge. Saint slinks into the kitchen from upstairs and occupies a chair next to Tristan, nudging a bowl of cubed salak pawpaws from in front of them to snack on as he lounges.
Sorcha taps the Slugma beneath the broad griddle-top, offering a couple of ganlon cubes to the hearth to coax her into heating. Slugma tosses aside the eggshells from the last offering and eagerly heats the range as she roasts her own meal. Lowering a custom-welded divider onto the heated surface, Sorcha begins pouring whipped Unfezant eggs and a handful of ingredients into each partition for egg patties. Once completed, theyâd be rolled into wraps with different compotes, sauces, and salad mixings. Tristan and Coral slide bowls down the counter-top with special call signs for each meal, indicating whose pokemon gets what. Between the three of them, they could feed an army.
Red makes a face at âattendedâ. Itâs not⊠disgust. Itâs not exactly unhappy, not frustrated or any multitude of negative emotions outright. But it is a face and he does make it. Itâs brief and momentary. She bumps their heads together and he nods, reminding himself that mercy takes more effort than cruelty. Kindness is more of a struggle than coldness.Â
But no one in this little cosmology of the universe knows that. He canât tell them either, because he doesnât know the signs or the words for that kind of struggle.
Itâs better to exist with a few steps in a space where Cantrip looks like heâd gone through the dryer and was enjoying the new sensation of being five times bigger. The spine is the axis of his universe, orbiting him is a group of people that cook meals in line succession, feeding the entire house with pleasant smiles. It smells like citrus.
âTake care of my plant, okay?â
Somebody had gone to get it for him, from Brendan, who diligently kept her healthy.
He has to leave to get his teeth capped though. He leaves his team, save Pikachu, to lounge around the pool, and beach, and play with their friends. Charizard gives him a look before he leaves, and a lick.
The dentist (and she is very peppy and happy to gush about Sorcha, herself; a note: he sympathizes) tells him he needs special paste and his enamel is degenerating (rare, but not uncommon and usually hereditary). He has to write his concerns on an altaria shaped clipboard while an x-ray of his mouth showed that yes, he has⊠absolutely bad molars. The good news? He wouldnât need dentures for at least a few decades.
Itâs funny. He never remembered his teeth being a problem before. Ever.
So, with a small bag of specialized paste and more work than he ever wanted done done, he nurses an idea with Pikachu, chatting nonstop with him about the party, the aftermath, and the contests coming up.Â
Theyâre both thinking about it. Pikachu has a solid scar under his coat that is bald in the right light from a bad Sucker Punch landing.
Itâs passing a pawnshop that brings him back to his senses. Thereâs a dinosaur of a projector in the window. He canât help but stop, and stare at it.
You think you can make that old thing work?
So, itâs off to the paddocks, lugging this old thing on a cart, a storeâs worth of paint markers, acetone, white spirits, a box of sweets, and two of Lilycoveâs finest âfishbagsâ.
The first thing he notices is the incredible amount of security around the place. Itâs not contest day, but there have to be five personnel for every contest entrant having the same idea as them and getting a jump on show preparations. Red flashes his identification at no less than three guards, pulling his haul back and counting the steps to Sorchaâs little alcove. There are less people here than usual.
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
2087
areudirty
