summary: there’s a lot of blue in your life. (you haven’t figured out yet what that means.)
pairing: siebold x reader
warning(s): mentions of alcohol.
word count: 896
From the balcony, all you can see is blue. You can stand there for hours, gazing at the cloudless cerulean sky and the way the horizon shivers. So you do—elbows resting on the balustrade, head propped up on one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Eventually, when the air grows a little colder and after you’ve emptied your glass, you recede into the little limewashed stone bungalow.
Your badge case, its sleek black exterior collecting dust from sitting untouched on the unused coffee table for two months, immediately catches your eye—it always does. You stare for a few seconds before brushing past it, making a beeline for the kitchen with the goal to fill your glass with more wine.
(The sharp-edged metal piece clicks into the final slot of your badge case on a bright but chilly November afternoon. It glints angrily in the sunlight and you consider ripping it out and throwing it into the nearest pile of snow. You almost do, but then the figure next to you begins to speak and you decide against it.
“I think you know what comes next,” he says, brushing a sweep of light blond hair out of his eyes and smiling softly. “I’ll be waiting for you at the League.”
“I’ll meet you there,” you reply with as much conviction as you can muster.
You don’t.)
From the lakefront, all you can see is blue. You can stand there for an entire afternoon, looking at the serene azure lake and the way a small rocky cavern juts out in the middle. So you do—feet dipping into the cool water, eyes tracing the edge where the lake meets the land and glancing occasionally into the cavern’s opening.
There’s something special about the lake. You’re not too sure what that something is, but the locals know and so you accept it. Regardless, the lakefront, like the balcony of your rented bungalow, is an easy place to spend time staring.
Staring is all you’ve been doing—at the sky, at the ocean, at the Wingull poking around the beach. That, and drinking wine. Every so often, you find yourself no longer staring, but back in Kalos, outside of Wulfric’s gym in Snowbelle City on that brisk November afternoon. Still, you let it pass through when it wants to, and you stick to the pattern. Stare, drink wine, repeat.
Then a familiar voice, clear and sharp, cuts through the quiet, calling out your name.
(By the fourth badge, you begin to resent the way the metal pieces feel between your fingers and the way Siebold grins when you show them to him. But you can’t quit. So you tell him that you’re one step closer to kicking his ass—he tells you that he’s looking forward to it—and you continue on.
You leave Clemont’s gym exhausted, Valerie’s crying, Olympia’s numb. And when Wulfric drops the eighth badge into your shaking palm, you want to scream. You want to climb the cliffs by Cyllage City and throw your badge case into the sea.
You want to quit. And you can.
So you do.
In December, you step on a plane to Sinnoh and don’t bother looking back.)
From the beach, all you can see is blue. You can stand there for what feels like forever, watching the steady rocking of the endless navy ocean and the way the waves break. So you do—toes buried in the sand, hair tangling with the light breeze drifting past.
“You don’t have to finish it,” Siebold remarks, standing next to you with an arm around your waist, your head resting against his shoulder. He isn’t referring to the wine-filled glass in your hand, which he occasionally nudges out of your grasp to take a sip from, but rather the reason you’re here in the first place. “There’s no point in pushing forward if it isn’t what you want to do.”
“I feel like I failed,” you sigh quietly before bringing your glass to your lips. You mean, I feel like I failed you.
The waves continue to lap at your feet as the breeze picks up and the sky begins to darken. You down the rest of the wine and make a move to head back to your little bungalow. For a moment, you think that maybe he won’t follow, but he grabs your free hand and his eyes—blue—meet yours as he replies, “You didn’t fail.”
You could never fail me.
(“Siebold won’t ever shut up about you,” Malva scoffs, her attention focused on examining her perfectly manicured nails. “It must mean that you’re something special.”
You notice the slight curve in the corners of her mouth before she reverts back to her typical frown.
“I’ve never heard you say anything that nice before.”
“Don’t worry,” she rolls her eyes. “It won’t happen again.”)
From the airport, all you can see is blue. You can stand there for as long as you’re allowed to, taking in one last glance of the sapphire tinted scene and the way the colors blend together. So you do—hands tucked in your jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the view.
“You look like you need a few minutes,” he says, reaching over to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I’ll be waiting for you on the plane.”
“I’ll meet you there,” you reply, truthfully this time.
