A/N: This story is built around a character's rape, but it's not explicit.

Originally written for the kink meme. This is the edited/corrected version.

The first time it happened, Black didn't know why Cheren was shying away from him whenever they met. Black congratulated him on a battle, "well done!", and moved to pat him in the back, like he did every time they would have a friendly spar. Cheren paled and stepped back, gripping at his sleeves like he was injured, and twisted his lips into a thin line, before saying something about needing to go, and that it was getting late—

Black didn't know what was going on, but shrugged it off. Maybe he'd been disappointed that he had lost. His attitude regarding battling had softened relatively, ever since he and Alder trained together. Alder was a great influence on him, but maybe Cheren still wasn't over handing the champion title to him …

The second time it happened, Black was sure that something was up, but didn't know what, and that bothered him. If it was Bianca, then he would have no trouble asking, because Bianca wore her heart in her sleeve, and Bianca always came to them when she had troubles. Cheren was the exact contrary. Cheren detested being weak, even though Black and Bianca had told him several times that needing someone's help was not a sign of weakness, but was in fact something only strong people could have the guts to do. Even though they'd said it, Cheren was still reticent.

The two of them met in Nimbasa City, and Black managed to make Cheren ride the Ferris wheel with him. It was something Black did often with the people he'd meet. Winter was there, too, holding hands with her mother, and she waved at him before saying hello. They chatted about life, and Winter asked him when can we battle again?, while Cheren drifted off to sit in one of the wooden benches. Black didn't know, but now he was with a friend, so he told her that maybe tomorrow, if she didn't give her mum trouble.

When he turned to meet Cheren, already practising an apology (because Cheren wasn't keen on waiting for others), he found him staring blankly at a couple nearby. They were most certainly lovey-dovey, and Black sat down next to him, smirking and teasing him about being such a pervert. Cheren blinked and turned to him, as if only noticing him then, and then shrugged. He didn't understand how people willingly put themselves in amorous relationships, he said. It was strange, he said.

Black stared at him and punched him in the arm softly, laughing and telling him he was acting weirdly, and that despite his best efforts, Black wouldn't forget that he had a soft spot for Bianca, and everyone knew it but her. But when he wiped the tears from his eyes, when his laughter died down, and when he finally stared at him, ready for a rebuttal, he found nothing. Cheren's eyes were oddly lacking any challenge or any annoyance, and Black's remaining chuckles were gone, replaced by a confused look. What was the matter with him? But Cheren just got up and walked away, saying that he didn't really want to ride the Ferris wheel anyway. There were too many people around, he said.

The third time it happened, Black called Juniper, asking for advice, because Cheren was acting weird— weirder than normal— and he didn't know what to do anymore. Nothing would work, he said. His normality was gone, he said.

Bianca and Cheren were in Nacrene, drifting in and out of warehouses, or whatever they did when they shopped. Black was in the café, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the sunlight. In the middle of winter, the occasional day of sunshine was to be appreciated and adored, not to be wasted running around with shopping bags and worrying about getting the last pink, brand-name shoes. So he was in the café, drinking a cup of coffee and watching as his serperior snaked around under the tables, scaring the high school girls from the table on his right. It wasn't too long before Cheren and Bianca showed up, a ton of bags in his arms and a cute bag on hers. They were tired, and Black motioned for them to sit down and get some rest.

Bianca chatted happily with him, telling him all about the discounts she'd been able to get, and people were so nice these days, right? When the waitress came up to ask them if they wanted anything, Bianca turned to her and confusedly asked about the menu. Black took it was a chance to ask him if had been a drag— shopping for anything that wasn't pokéballs or hold items was so boring … Cheren shrugged, stealing a sideways glance to check if Bianca was distracted, and then whispered that he wasn't sure he liked shopping anymore. There were too many people pushing him around, and there was too much noise, too. It was a ghastly task for him, to follow around Bianca as she got discounts from men who eyed her chest appreciatively, so, could he cover for him in the next round?

Black, who had choked on his coffee when Cheren mentioned perverted salesmen, nodded. Sure, of course he would cover for him. They were friends, after all, and well, Black didn't like shopping at all, but it was obvious Cheren was tired. So, when Bianca was done with her fruit slushie, and was ready for another trip around the warehouses, it was Black that left his seat. The girl looked surprised, but very pleased, and when they bid goodbye to Cheren, he barely looked back.

Black was right— shopping was a drag. When they were done with buying little trinkets, Bianca showed him that the tiny corner of the street was a thrift shop for trainers, and they spent a while there, searching for more specific types of pokéballs, and energy drinks … At least that part wasn't so bad.

When they got back to the café, they were surprised to see that Cheren was no longer there. Bianca looked heartbroken, because she'd bought a small keychain for him, and it was obvious that she missed him. Bianca didn't see Cheren as many times as he did. Black looked around, still hoping to see him; maybe he'd gone to the bathroom.

But Cheren didn't return. Black was more than angry, and even though he tried calling him, he wouldn't answer. Bianca tried to calm Black down, and by the time they bid their goodbyes, he'd stopped calling Cheren and started calling Juniper.

Juniper looked concerned when she heard the news. Cheren had stopped calling her a few weeks back, and she didn't know if his pokédex was going well or not. Black and Bianca were the only ones to call her anymore, and well, she had been busy lately, so she had no time to call him just to ask if everything was alright. She figured he was just busy— most of the time, the three teens were, so she had learned not to call them much. Black dwelled on that. True, Bianca and him called more than Cheren, but …

But it was different than just being busy. Black didn't know how to explain it, but Cheren was drifting away from them. It was almost as if he was doing it on purpose, too, but Cheren didn't do that, Black said, and then shut up abruptly, thinking about something. He promised to call Juniper later, and when he hung up, he grabbed one of his pokéballs and flew away.

Nuvema Town received him with arms open wide, but for once Black decided to skip the greetings and the inevitable questions about his journey. Cheren wasn't home, but his mother took him in, inviting him for tea. Half-way through the conversation, she asked him if Cheren was alright. He hadn't come home in quite a while, she said, and set the dessert spoon down on the saucer, glancing at her tea in a sullen way. Black lied easily— he felt guilty about it, but Cheren's mum didn't need to know that her boy was avoiding his childhood friends.

They were older by now. No longer the eleven-year-olds who absolutely had to win a battle, but the older trainers who knew that experiencing one was something greater than winning. Cheren had changed his ways; had adapted to their thinking. But now, his resolve was falling apart like a castle made of cards, and Black didn't know why. Cheren didn't talk about his problems, but if he did, then he would talk to his mother. And yet, she knew nothing. Black felt like he knew nothing, too. It seemed that fourteen years of knowing Cheren amounted to nothing.

That was why he asked to see his room— well, he thought maybe he'd left his— uh— pokédoll in there. Cheren's mum just nodded, still contemplating her tea, and Black ran up the stairs. Cheren's room was tidy, like always. His desk was covered in a thin layer of dust. He hadn't been home for weeks. He hadn't talked to Juniper for weeks. He still talked to Black, and to Bianca, but talking to them wasn't any good, because he didn't say anything. Black tried to turn on his laptop, but it was turned off, and he didn't want to plug it. That would be too much. He stared at the book cases instead, wanting some answer for them. The books didn't give him one, however.

He gave up, sad. The Cheren he knew was always willing to put in the last word, the challenge, the sarcastic remark. He was the intelligent one— he took charge of strategies and he would help Bianca whenever the girl needed it. He would teach Black things about pokémon mechanics (so pokémon have different stats because of their genetic values!). He was there for them.

And whatever had gone on with him, Black would make sure he would be there for him too.

He returned home, then, and talked to his mother while his pokémon rested. It was okay for people to have secrets, she said, while she arranged the flowers in the table. Today, they were orange, and Blair wondered where she picked them; it was winter. But when those secrets were hurting them, then maybe it was best for them to say them to their friends. To share the pain. Black stared at his mother, and nodded slowly. In a way, he understood. But Cheren refused to do it.

Well, it wasn't like he specifically told him that he was there to help him. At least, not yet.

Black said goodbye to his mum and ran up the stairs, seeking the comfort and the silence of his room, and then dialled Cheren's number in his Xtransceiver. It took the other boy more than a few seconds to pick it up. It was strange— Cheren was always on his toes, always the first to answer the call of his phone. Black tried not to look worried as he asked him if they could meet sometime soon. After all, he explained, it had been a long time since the three of them were together. And he missed them—

Cheren cut him off with a tired voice, explaining that he was busy, and well, couldn't he see that? Maybe some other time, when he was less tired, less occupied by work. When he was done talking, Black must've made a terribly sad face, because Cheren didn't hang up right away.

After a little while, he met up with Bianca. She told him about her life— with the money from battling, she'd rented a small warehouse in Nacrene, where she was selling paintings. Burgh had been teaching her how to paint, and she loved it. It was better to have something else to do besides training, Bianca told him in a small voice, and Black knew she was talking about her inability to battle. Black just smirked and put an arm around her shoulders, squeezing slightly. She wasn't bad at anything; when she showed him her paintings, Black didn't cut on compliments. They were in fact very nice, and he made a note to thank Burgh for getting Bianca out of her rut.

Black had his friends' back at all times, from Cheren and Bianca to that cute girl with the ponytail he sometimes saw in the Battle Subway. It was in his nature. It was almost in every trainer's nature. A pokémon trainer was used to taking care of his pokémon, and taking care of other people was as easy and as fulfilling. Cheren didn't like it— to him, caring was a weakness. Black never really understood that.

He and Bianca had a nice dinner together, chatted about her paintings, about his travels, and then there was a silence. Black wanted to interrupt it, and ask about Cheren, but Bianca got ahead of him. The two of them spoke at the same time, but instead of laughing about it, they were silent once more. Black took in Bianca's worried face, and sighed tiredly, setting the fork down. His appetite was gone, even though Bianca's casserole was great.

They were both worried about him, and all Cheren did was to lock them out.

He hadn't talked to Bianca in a month, she said to him, gripping the napkin. She didn't know if she'd done something to make him angry, she said. She didn't think she did, but maybe she had, and maybe she hadn't realised that … Black didn't think so. When Cheren was upset about something, everyone around him knew it— he was bad at hiding his feelings, even though he tried very hard to do so. Black asked Bianca if she remembered Cheren's eight birthday party; he had been upset all day, because he didn't get the book he'd wanted, and he'd taken it out on them. Even though it wasn't their fault at all.

It was a bad example, but Black couldn't discuss any others without flatly mentioning Cheren's crush on Bianca, and he didn't want that. Not now, that he was feeling bad and acting even worse.

The two of them made plans to talk to Cheren; they spent the night up making diagrams and tiny circular charts on Bianca's canvases, and Black noticed it had been a while since they'd had so much fun together. The realisation of that only made him miss Cheren more.

One thing that Black had learned while growing up on the road was that the only time Cheren was available for anything it was when he wanted to battle. Up to this day, Black didn't know exactly what Cheren spent so much time doing that he couldn't meet up with Bianca and him whenever they found each other on the streets of a city, but he didn't care a whole lot. They were all busy— he was occupied with training, and so was Cheren. But now, whatever Cheren was occupied with— it wasn't training. Training gave Cheren a small smile, and it cleared out his head when Black and Bianca couldn't. Whatever Cheren was doing now was sucking out all his free time; consuming him into discarding his friends and even his family.

Black knew Cheren wasn't exactly the person most attached to his family. Out of the three, Black was the one who stopped by Nuvema more often. In Bianca's case, well, he understood. Bianca's dad had a sick sense of pleasure knowing that his daughter would not be more successful than him; Black had only understood it when his mum explained that some parents couldn't see their children grow up. Someday soon she'd show him wrong, though, Black was sure. But Cheren had no motive to escape home. Something was wrong. Black had felt that something was wrong for a very long time, but now— now he was sure.

And he was also sure that he had to do something before they completely lost contact. It was not an exaggeration— Cheren was drifting apart. He wouldn't pick up his Xtransceiver, and he wouldn't reply to the letters Black was sure Bianca insisted on sending. Sometimes, when she was sad, Black wondered if it was because they were delivered back to the sender, unopened. Black's mother told him about Cheren's mother, and the way she was slowly becoming a little sadder every day. Black wasn't stupid; despite his tender age, he knew Cheren's mother was well into becoming depressed. It was a disease, and he didn't know much about it, but he knew it was all because of Cheren. The whole situation had gone too far for anyone to handle. But Black wasn't going to throw fourteen years of friendship out the window, and he wasn't going to let Cheren get away from them without a proper goodbye and a proper excuse. He'd had that before— the silence and the sudden realisation that maybe N was never going to return— and he wasn't going to have it again. Never again, if he could help it.

That night, Black couldn't sleep. Not with the worries electrifying him from the inside. He spent the night up, making plans inside his head, to figure out what was wrong with him, and how to fix it. Maybe Cheren was sick— but Black couldn't bear to think about that, so he discarded the theory immediately. Besides, he would have noticed. Black always noticed when Bianca was starting to have a cold, or when Cheren once twisted his arm and was too proud to go to a pokécenter right away. He would have noticed. It was something else. Something like the loss of a really important battle.

Black couldn't understand what battle was so important that Cheren would throw away everything to get back at the winner. Cheren thought about battling a lot. Even more than Black, and Black really liked battling. But Cheren thought about battling like it was a particularly difficult game, like the strategy board games he had tucked beneath his bed whenever Black and Bianca invaded his room. Maybe that was the difference. It was not to say that Black didn't strategize— he did, and he was great at it, but Cheren planned out every little thing. It was almost as if compulsory for him to.

Maybe his pride had been offended. Maybe that was it. He couldn't think of anything else.

He started worrying then— what kind of battle would make him behave like this?

The streets of Castelia were empty when Black got down from his unfezant. He grinned, glad to have made it early enough for the town to be quiet; he'd barely slept, just to try and make sure that he wasn't disturbed by the employees of Passer-by Analytics (or even the men who handed out flyers for things he wasn't interested in). He felt a little like N when he thought about all the wasted paper, so he never really said anything against the hand-outs. Don't fix what isn't broken, he would always think.

Black stared at his watch. The café that sold Casteliacones was still closed. He sighed; he'd been contemplating getting one since he'd left home, but that would have to wait. He would meet up with Burgh "around eleven"; the gym leader hadn't specified a precise time, so Black still had about five hours … Well, he should get down to it, instead of staring at the empty streets. Castelia in the early mornings was so strange— he was used to having to struggle through a sea of people just to get to the pokécenter, and even there he would have to wait for another hour. There were so many people in Castelia; it was just uncomfortable for him. Hadn't Cheren said something like that once, by the Ferris wheel? Black hadn't understood then, because, well— the park was almost empty, really— but Castelia and its private human playground was stressful. He didn't know how someone was capable of staying for a while, much less living.

If Castelia Street was empty, then Narrow Street was emptier still. During the day, the alleys were almost always empty (or seemingly so— Black knew better than to trust his eyes around the shadier part of town, and usually relied on his musharna, who would warn him if there were any dreams nearby), and in the morning, even more so. It was at night that the illegal business flourished there. Black knew about it, because— well, he wasn't proud of it, but a particular merchant sold pokéballs by the bulk, and they were so cheap …

He wasn't there to buy pokéballs this time, though. Musharna, at his side, perked up when they crossed a garbage can, and Black halted briefly. A man came out of the shadows, and Black remembered that although the sun was up, the light was still meek and it didn't reach all the way inside the city. He recognized him instantly— the man who had given him technical machine number seventy, flash— and stepped closer to him. Black wasn't afraid. He was already famous as one of the strongest trainers in Unova; no one would dare try to hurt him. Sometimes, that confirmation made him calmer and more comfortable when he was alone, on a particularly creepy forest, but sometimes he felt that some people were afraid of him. Sometimes, it was lonely.

They talked briefly; it was a light tone of conversation, because Black really was desperate to find out if Cheren had been involved in any underground battle circles, or, even worst, if he owed something to anyone who wasn't exactly on the good side of the law— but the man denied it all. Cheren was too lawful to enter in a tournament, even though he would probably win, he said, and then thought about something. There had been rumours— rumours, nothing really palpable— that Cheren had gotten himself in some trouble because of Team Plasma. Yes, he said, Plasma was all well and gone by now, but certainly there were still some vengeful ex-members lying around, waiting for opportunity to strike … so that they would strike. That was what his boss had been saying, anyhow. It had been over in a quiet, simple fashion, and if there was something he had learned when he had joined the gang, it was that when a rival gang goes down, it's never easy and always ends up in the evening news.

The conversation, although brief and compulsorily kept simple, was hard for Black to digest. Gang wars and evening news— Team Plasma not really defeated— he didn't really know what to say about that, so he kept his mouth shut while the man talked (he would've liked to call him something, but he refused to say his name; old habits died hard, Black supposed). The new favourite topic was the status of Team Plasma. There were bets flying everywhere, and loan sharks were making fortunes just because of a rumour. It was ridiculous, in his opinion, but he wasn't going to call out his boss.

When the man ran out of information regarding Team Plasma and Cheren, Black thanked him and walked out of Narrow Street. He still had a long time to go before eleven, but maybe the café had already opened, and he really needed to sit down and think about it. When he got there, he ordered a Casteliacone— in a bowl (they didn't sell the ice cream in a cone in the winter, sadly)— and a hot cocoa, winning a strange glance from the waitress— it was winter after all. The cocoa was delicious when combined with the sugary flavour of the ice cream, and, for a moment, Black allowed himself to forget about Cheren. Just for a minute or two.

He would have liked to share the news with Bianca, but that would only worry her; when Bianca was worried, she would inevitably try to fix the problem, but she would inevitably fail. And then Black would have to fix everything. He smiled at the thought. She meant well but … Black blinked and focused: Cheren's situation was the important thing now. The problem was that Black didn't know if it was just Cheren's situation, or if it was Team Plasma's situation, or if it was Team Plasma's and Cheren's situation. Four-eyes (which was how Black would refer to the shady man from now on) had only worsened his worries.

When had it come to this? He knew that the only reason as to why he'd gotten anywhere in the first place was because Bianca and Cheren were always there to help him. And— and if Cheren wanted to get anywhere in his revenge— or pilgrimage— or journey (god, he didn't know), then he needed them, too.

When Black went to take another bite of his ice cream, it had already melted in the small glass recipient. For some reason, that made him sadder than he should've been regarding melting ice cream, and he drank the rest of his hot chocolate, hoping for consolation.

… It didn't exactly deliver.

Burgh didn't know about any Team Plasma business in his city, and Black didn't want to press the matter. If he did, then Burgh would have been suspicious, and while Black would've liked him to help (heck, any help available was great), he didn't feel comfortable talking about Cheren's situation. He had a gut feeling that he wasn't supposed to know about it (which, sadly, he didn't— not yet, but he was working on it), much less talk to a gym leader about it.

The two talked about Bianca, and how Burgh thought that with a little practice she would be a great painter someday, and how Black sort of agreed, since he didn't know enough about art to give a good critique. Burgh invited him to lunch, but Black felt that he was wasting his time, and said that he had business to take care of. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it still felt wrong to omit information from someone who was such a good guy. They'd been together fighting Plasma before, too, so … But he walked off.

Black decided that he was stumped. Bianca hadn't heard of Cheren ever since the fatidic shopping trip, so she didn't know where he was. Juniper was the same, too— Cheren hadn't talked to her in months now. He just didn't answer his phone anymore …

He sat down in one of the benches, in the central plaza, and watched people coming and going.

If he were Cheren, where would he be if he was sore over a battle? Home clearly wasn't it. If he didn't like being around people anymore, then he wouldn't be in Castelia. Where could Black find a desolated place in Unova? There were so many …

By the time Black got to the desert resort, it was already one o'clock.

Black wasn't too fond of the desert, for obvious reasons. It was too hot, too stifling, and it reminded him of Team Plasma. Sometimes, when he was walking by Pinwheel forest, searching for some or other pokémon, he was struck to the head with the reminder that he'd battled Team Plasma there. It was awful. There were many places in Unova that reminded Black of battling Team Plasma, sadly. Sometimes he felt like he couldn't appreciate the beauty of his surroundings anymore.

Was that how Cheren felt? Was that how he was feeling? Maybe he was hiding somewhere because he couldn't stand to remember …

If he was hiding, then the relics were the place to be. The fanatics and the scientists only adventured until the second level, but Black and Cheren had been forced to learn about the strange paths and the moving sand spots. He trudged inside, lamenting the heat and the sand and welcoming the slight cool breeze.

There were also lots of pokémon there, and even though Cheren hardly ever admitted to having a favourite pokémon, because having favourite pokémon was stupid, Black knew that he was fond of psychic and ghost types. Black was more fond of fire and electric types, really— they were more active and more jolly, while the ghost and psychic types were morose and slow-acting. Cheren liked them because they were smart and tricky, like him.

Black found a hiker in the third level and, after being impressed, he asked him if he hadn't seen a black-haired young man …

He was lucky. Cheren could've been anywhere, but— he set out to the last level impatiently— the hiker had nodded and told him about his mean posture and impatience when battling him, and if that wasn't Cheren then he didn't know who was.

When he ran down the stone stairs, he could already feel his heart beating like a drum. It had been so long since he'd seen Cheren, so long since they'd last talked face-to-face, so long since he felt this whole again. He even contemplated calling Bianca when a fleeting thought ran through his mind that maybe Cheren would appreciate her company as well, but then his eyes fell on the lone figure inside the vast room.

Cheren didn't look like he noticed Black's arrival, but Black was more concerned about the way he looked. He was tired. He looked tired. There were bags under his eyes and his hands were dirty. The Cheren he knew would've never let himself— Black swallowed in dry and noticed he'd stop moving. He and Cheren were two unmoving pieces of people in the desert. But Black was full of energy and fighting spirit, an unmoving desire to set things right between all of them— Cheren was tired, swaying and blinking strangely, and his eyes were red.

Black took a step towards him, shuffling loudly in the sand, and Cheren's head swivelled, violent like a knife, towards his direction. His mouth was taut, pulled into a thin line, and Black didn't miss the way his hand edged towards his hip. What had happened to Cheren? He was looking like shit.

Black didn't know why, but he wanted to cry; only Cheren beat him to it. Black only noticed because of the sudden wet spots in the sand, because Cheren's long fringe didn't allow him to see his eyes (he needed a haircut). Cheren asked him what he was doing there, and his voice was strangely bitter and meek. It was strange, it didn't carry the weight of his pride, nor did it warn Black that Cheren was superior to him, like normal. In that moment, he knew it wasn't all about losing a battle.

He supposed normal had been discarded long ago, and moved to grab Cheren by the arm and shake him, and yell to him because— Black didn't know what was going on—

Cheren twisted his arm out of his grasp and managed to say something to him. It was strangled, and Black didn't understand, so he stepped closer, until Cheren looked up to him, eyes so wide it almost hurt, and screamed for Black to just stop touching him. Please, he added then, whispering, and Black let his hand fall down to meet his stomach. Black didn't want to, but he asked what happened. He felt sick, sick with implications and maybe his mum had softened things for him, or maybe he'd softened things himself, but nothing could prepare him to the wondrous feeling, to the horrifying shock, to the weakness that suddenly overcame his knees when Cheren told him nothing had happened.

Black raised his hand to punch him, make him see that something was wrong, or otherwise he wouldn't have holed up inside a fucking oven, and stopped talking to him and Bianca and his own mother, and then Cheren stared at him hard and told him to hit him.

Black stared at him, just as hard, and tightened his fist, telling Cheren that he wouldn't hit him; Cheren smiled (smiled?) at him, lips chapped and cheeks wet, and told him that maybe he'd messed up somewhere along the line. He didn't know why, and he didn't want to, either way, but something had gone on with him, and now he couldn't and didn't want to show his face around them anymore. Black felt his voice crack when he asked him what happened for the second time, and Cheren turned away from him.

It was shameful, the other boy said, and with every breath they took Black felt himself go a little insane. It was hot inside the relics and his running shoes were already full of sand. He was sweaty, he was worried, and he was just a little boy. Cheren on the other hand, was staring at the wall like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen in the last few years— Black remembered N and remembered Ghetsis and remembered two dragons of opposite sides— and then he turned to Black, and finally talked.

Black didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything while Cheren told him that, one day, he'd found Ghetsis in Undella, and he was looking bad. Ghetsis had recognized him, and Cheren didn't know how it happened, but he'd lost against him, and all the while Ghetsis was telling him he couldn't tell anyone he was there, that he couldn't know about him anymore, and that he was not supposed to be there—

Cheren paused. Ghetsis had taken his pokémon away from him. He was defenceless … Ghetsis was deranged …

…

…

And finally, Black understood.

They didn't go home after that. Cheren didn't want to— and who was Black to understand? He took Cheren to an inn, and sat down against the door of a bathroom while he took a shower. Black was sad. Black was heartbroken. Black felt sick to his stomach. But above all, Black was angry. It was the sad kind of angry, but his hands hadn't stopped shaking. He wondered what it had been like, to be so utterly broken at the age of fourteen— to be so broken, period. He gripped harder at his forearms while he waited for Cheren to finish. He wondered if he was scrubbing hard, just to get Ghetsis out of his skin, just to get it out of him—

He realised he was crying. Black buried his head in his arms. He wanted to call his mother, ask for forgiveness and advice. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to think that Cheren was running away from them for no reason, couldn't believe he thought he was leaving them behind just because Black was the champion and he wasn't. What was it worth, anyway— being the champion didn't help in anything. It didn't help Cheren, who'd been— who'd been—

Cheren opened the door and stared at him. Black stared back at him, but he couldn't see past the blur of the prickling tears. He wanted Cheren to make a joke about him being such a sissy, as usual, but Cheren just stood there, passively taking in the room with his eyes. It was a cheap but cosy inn, and it smelled of woodpine. He figured Cheren didn't want to be shoved inside a crowd, so they'd headed to the outskirts of Nimbasa. Cheren had stopped and stared and the alleys when they were walking, and it took him another fifteen minutes to move. What did he see? Did he see himself again, did he repeat that moment over and over and over—

He got up and met Cheren's eyes. The other boy just walked to the bed and sat down, running a hand across the soft sheets. Black sat down on the opposite bed, and told him in a choked voice that he needed to talk to him, or else they wouldn't be able to do anything. What was there left to do? Cheren glanced down at his pink hands. The smell of a freshly-taken shower was swaying around them, bringing the humid heat along.

His pokémon still didn't know what happened, Cheren said to him. He hadn't told them. He probably wouldn't tell them. He probably wouldn't tell anyone about what happened. He didn't think he could. Black only listened as he went on speaking in broken sentences, like he was trying to figure out what to say. There was nothing to do but to heal now, right? Right. Ghetsis would never be reached by the law. Not after disappearing.

But then again, how could he sleep at night, knowing that he was still out there— that the bastard was still out there, after what he'd done to his fucking best friend—

He proceeded softly, ignoring Black's closed fists. It was almost as if Black wasn't there and he was talking to himself. Like a dream. The steam lingered around them. It wasn't anyone's fault. They knew— they all knew Ghetsis wasn't right in the head. It was obvious. So, in a sense, it was no one's fault.

But it was, Black shouted, fists limply hanging beside his thighs as he stood up. It was Ghetsis' fault. And he would— he would track him down and kill that motherfucker, he would kill him and then—

No. Cheren told him to sit down. That wouldn't solve anything, he said, and stared at the wooden floor. That wouldn't help him. No one could help him but himself. Black sat down, and told him he would help him too. Whatever it cost. Cheren let the ghost of a smile grace his features before nodding and saying that they would see the morning sun together. No matter what the cost.

It was a promise. Black raised his hand and felt more than a little elated when Cheren took it.

When Black woke up, Cheren's bed was empty.

He didn't keep track of time after that.

Black stared at the sky of Nuvema and let his head fall. He'd somehow grown into the habit of staying up until sunrise; maybe it was because of his fixation with keeping promises, or maybe it was because he just couldn't sleep anymore. He liked to tell Bianca it was just because it was fun, but he still wouldn't let her watch the sunrise with him.

After Cheren had left, after their promise, he travelled, tried to clear his head. He travelled across Unova, trying to reach something. A means of an end. Closure. Would there ever be any kind of closure for him? Bianca still didn't know about anything, and Black wouldn't tell anyone. He didn't want to, and he … he didn't think he could, anyway. It would be a violation— he winced and closed his eyes— a violation of Cheren's trust.

He wondered a lot about Cheren. He wondered if he still liked Bianca. He wondered if he could ever live with his parents again. He wondered if their shared life could click back— ease back into its rails. Normalcy. He wanted that. He wasn't sure he could have it, though. Black smiled and opened his eyes, cloud-gazing. They did a lot when they were kids; they would see patrat and pidove— sometimes, real pidove— in the clouds, and they would point and laugh when Bianca said the clouds looked like ice cream.

He wondered if Bianca knew. He wondered if Cheren's mother knew. He wondered if his mum knew. His mum had expressed relief when he returned. It was soft and barely showing, but when she took him into an embrace and kissed the top of his head, he was sure of it. He wondered if Cheren would break away from his mother the next time he saw her, if he would push her away and fall to pieces. Cheren was strong— but he wasn't.

Black felt the grass rustle along his cheek and turned to look.

Cheren sat down beside him, face upwards. He looked content. Black smiled and sat up, rubbing at his eyelids tiredly. He didn't make a spectacle of it. What was wrong with an old friend coming home? He tentatively poked at Cheren's bare hand, and hid his eyes behind his hand when Cheren poked back. He didn't want Cheren to see him cry. Crying would be admitting something was wrong.

"So," Black said, easing back into the grass and staring at the clearing sky. "You're back."

"I keep my promises," Cheren said, easing back next to him.

Above them, the lavender sky bled, very slowly, into yellow.

Rapture (n.):

1. Extreme pleasure, happiness or excitement.
2. (obsolete) Rape; ravishment; sexual violation.