Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon.

.l-with our fingers entwined-l.

(you promised me the world.)

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If you close your eyes, you can still hear his toxichauntingenchanting laughter echoing in the wind.

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The Ferris wheel turns and turns and turns, merging into a rhythmic soundtrack to complement the recurring thump-thump-thump of your ricocheting heart as you listen to him speak, voice as smooth as silk and sweet as honey.

He reveals that he's the leader of – of all things – the villainous team that is the reason for your lack of a peaceful journey. Although you've expected something along the same lines ever since your paths crossed in Accumula Town, where his curious eyes found you and Cheren writhing in mirth as the sage preached his double-sided words, it takes more than his glue-words to keep the broken fragments of yourself together.

"Come with me, Touko," he says, raising his arms as if to amalgamate the world in one sweeping motion. Sunlight, warm and golden, pools into the capsule, drenching you to the skin but accentuating his imploring expression and bathing him in a divine glow. In that moment, he becomes more than just a teenage boy with dreams and aspirations overridden by naivety; he becomes a god. "We could create a new world together, you and I. We could purify the tarnished and eradicate all evil. I could give you everything, from Pokémon roaming the land freely to avarice-overcome scum kneeling at the dust beneath our feet. We could draw a distinct line between black and white."

"You're a liar," you accuse, but it comes out in a tone much more feeble than the sharp one you were aiming for, and his respondent laugh permeates the air for the first time.

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You're standing opposite each other in the rain. Iridescent droplets are splashing onto your faces and streaming down fast and free, reminiscent of winter melting into spring, but neither of you cares.

You are all of thirteen when he takes your hand in his. His fingers wrap around yours, long and slim and alabaster contrasting with short and stubby and mocha, and he raises your sun-kissed skin to his lips as if yearning to compete with the scintillant blazing orb. Your hand is calloused with thin red veins reeking of sunburn and your nails are crooked and bitten from overwhelming nerves and that mock-innocent smirk on his tilted face screams rape and everything is wrong about the situation, but you don't break eye contact.

"Consider my offer," he whispers to the wind, carrying his nearly inaudible sentence fluidly to your ears. Simple words, but they sting like poison.

He slinks away with the stealth of a deceiving fox, leaving you to be consumed by darkness as the neon lights of the amusement park flicker out.

Your knees buckle, but you determinedly shrug off the sign of weakness. (You won't fall, because you are Touko White and Touko White falls for nobody.)

His laugh reverberates in your ears, because you know exactly who and what he is and let him pull you into the tenebrous darkness anyway.

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You stumble across him by accident.

Chargestone Cave is cold and unforgiving, the stagnant frosty air piercing your skin and igniting a blossom of blisters, and all you want is to find the exit. The last gossamer-thin thread of hope pulling you along promises the blissful glow of summer warmth, but it snaps all too soon, jerking you back into the reality of a certain obstinate obstacle with a head of viridescent hair blocking your way.

"Touko," he muses, head cocking to the side as a suave smile graces his lips. You're frozen in mid-step like a deer caught in headlights, only his eyes are laser beams, much brighter and penetrating than any true light source will ever be. "We meet again. Have you decided?"

You haven't. His words hold the power to reduce you to a stammering, frivolous fool, and after a humiliating thirteen seconds of umm-you-know-I-haven't-reallys accompanied by the thrumming sound of his laugh resounding around the cavern, you instigate a battle to mask your fluster.

With a flick of his wrist and a snap of your finger, Poké Balls slice through the static air and the fight commences.

You clinch victory, as you always do, and his laugh is expectant as his ore-comprised massif Pokémon slams against the ground to produce a familiar hoarse, guttural sound of defeat.

(His lips skimming your hand before he diffuses into darkness are not.)

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It is a wonderland.

With a cornucopia of entertainment facilities, a colossal assemblage of toys, and colours, colours of every shade of the spectrum spilling across the eccentric mishmash of stone and concrete, it is definitely a playroom designed specifically for the youngest of toddlers. Fuchsia, cerulean, vermilion, celadon, saffron – the most unexpected combination of colours flow upon every object in its path, transforming the entire room into a sickening parody of a canvas left at the mercy of a child.

Among the sea of bright colours, past the animatedly chugging train across multihued tracks and hovering loftily on the skating ramp decorated with claw marks, is him.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Toss. Clatter. Thump. Thump. Thump. Toss. Clatter. Thump. Thump. Thump. Toss.

You keep your eyes trained on the basketball as it skims past his fingers with an airy grace, slicing through the still air like a knife slashing through butter, lightly circling the rim of the hoop before falling, falling to the mercy of gravity and into the beckoning invitation of his deft fingers. He dribbles quickly, swiftly, the rhythmic thud resounding around the chamber before tossing it upwards as the cycle repeats again and again.

(You watch this and think that it represents you and him aptly, going round and round in circles with no clear purpose because a cycle has neither a beginning nor an end–)

"You came." A visceral shudder ripples through the room as he cocks his head a near-imperceptible fraction of an inch, acknowledging your presence but never once breaking away from the routine.

(You feel a chill nip at your spine, minute and nettling, but it's only the frigid air of this regal castle, no, nothing to do with him at all–)

You steady your trembling voice (no, not from nerves, never nerves, because you are Touko White and Touko White falters for nobody) and speak. It's your last chance to attempt to sway his resolve; to avoid the devastating fate that awaits you both. "You don't have to do this, N. There are other ways – other less adverse methods of uniting humans and Pokémon– "

He shakes his head, and the basketball under his control rises and falls in time with your heart. (Up and down and up and down and up and down and–) "Can't you see, Touko? This is all for my dream. For my friends. Harsh and raw as it is, this is the truth: humans and Pokémon can never coexist peacefully–"

"You're wrong!"

He shakes his head again, your pitiful words falling on deaf (blinded by naivety) ears. He shifts the strength he exerts on the ball ever so slightly, and it now slams against the floor to a beat throbbing in an ominous countdown to your fall. His voice is cold. Delirious. Cutting as a thousand swords dipped in acerbity, slashing across your heart. The message is deplorable, perhaps, yet strangely compelling.

"I saw dreams. Dreams no one else could have seen." Thump. "I saw Pokémon. They came to me in droves and tears." Thump. "Cuts." Thump. "Bites." Thump. "Gashes." Thump. "Bruises." Thump. "Stumps where arms and legs should've been." Thump. "Broken limbs, stained red and twisted beyond repair." Thump. "All caused by humans." Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's only when saltiness spills onto your dry lips in streams and your tongue runs numbly over the strange substance that you realises you're crying (which is ridiculous and demented and wrong because you are Touko White and Touko White cries for nobody, much less deluded villains like him).

"I will shape a new world." Thump. "I will draw the Divide between Pokémon and their merciless abusers." Thump. "I will prevent further harm from befalling these guileless creatures that are our friends, not mere playthings–" a smirk, so callous and mirthless and out of place, creases his face that was once so innocently hopeful, "and separate black from white, wheat from chaff." Ice encases his next words as he brings the basketball down with a final, resolute thump.

"And I will allow no one," he swivels around, his frosty spheres for eyes sending a tremor of shock jolting through your veins, "to stand in my way."

"Neither will I." You taste every drop of bitterness that laces the three simple words as a fresh bout of anger begins simmering within the pits of your stomach. "I will show you how fallacious your judgment is, N."

"Then we are to be enemies, you and I." Storm grey and sky blue lock, and in that infinitesimal moment, you know that the N Harmonia you once knew is long gone.

(You wonder how the two of you ended up like this. You wonder – if you closed your eyes, could you return to the carefree days when he was just another enigma, an obstinate obstacle to conquer? Could you wind back time to the thudding of footsteps, the breeze whistling beneath your arms, as your foot nimbly touched down on the ground just prior to embarking on the fateful Ferris wheel ride?)

He takes a step forward. And another. And another. Pause. The previously stagnant air in the room is stirring, awakening to life as power pulsates beneath his pale fingers.

"Touko White…"

His left foot joins his right. You feel the hum of anticipation, the addictive swirl of adrenalin, and the instinctive tensing of muscles. You hear the hiss of a developing thunderstorm, see the will in his eyes, and smell the beginning of scorching fire.

"… Hero of Unova."

Your hand is darting to the red-and-white capsules slung around your waist, while a strikingly familiar, gargantuan figure weaves itself from a flash of white light behind him.

"Come forth."

And the walls explode.

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The castle quickly falls beyond repair as fire and lightning clash with a vengeance centuries old.

You are cruel as winter; ruthless as Vikings; deadly as poison. You move with the agility of lightning, teetering from the top of the skating ramp as though dancing on tightropes, and just as he thinks has you pinned down with a blast of fire, the attack collides into empty space, engulfing the shattered remnants in flavescent flames.

You cling desperately to the back of Zekrom, chipped fingernails digging into its coal-black armour as it tips backwards for a heart-stopping fraction of a second before soaring into the air with an astounding velocity, veering violently from left to right at spasmodic intervals in order to avoid being singed by incoming bursts of energy.

He chases you into the throne room – or you chase him, you can't remember – and red rivers of flames spill onto the cold hard stone, blazing crimson sloshing around the creeping nigrescence as electricity crackles through the air, quivering in excitement, suspending the throne of thunder and ashes as the sinewy pieces curl and break, iridescent blue and golden cerise blending into a lethal mélange–

–and the two forces are clashing, clashing like never before, clashing like light crafted from night and darkness woven from day born to be enemies, clashing like the rapid hammering of your heart against your ribcage as he plays it like a pawn on his chessboard he leaves banged up and bruised and broken–

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You duel, you and him. You duel on the eternal chessboard of fire and lightning, the ground thrumming with pure power and crumbling to dust beneath his feet and the air pulsing with unadulterated energy as it swirls around your flicking fingers.

You are the white queen, the one who is supposed to represent good. You are on the side that starts the game, the one who controls all directions on the board and leaks astuteness to your lowly minions, born to obey your beck and call.

(And yet you find yourself faltering, hesitating, the most powerful piece on the battlefield stumbling to the foot of darkness's throne of gilded ideals.)

He is the black king, the one who is supposed to represent evil. He is under constant persistence and surveillance from the opposition, only able to move a pathetic space at a time but cunningly utilising his pawns as a safeguarding barrier.

(And yet he finds himself stopping, stuttering, the most wanted piece on the battleground swayed by light's blindingly inviting laurel of truth.)

And you are trapped in a perpetual stalemate, you and him, an impasse of colliding truth and ideals in which neither side is willing to budge.

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The air is toxic. Fatal. Charged with ozone and smoke, pervaded by intense bolts of fire and electricity.

On the back of Reshiram, he uses it as a smokescreen of lies and deceit, darting behind the sooty haze clouding your vision and burning your throat.

"N." The name slips from your dry and cracked lips, barely louder than a whisper.

He's by your side instantly, charging through the billowing fumes, the sinuous darkness parting effortlessly before its prince. "Giving up?"

You cast your tired eyes over him as Reshiram screeches before its eternal nemesis, throwing its flowing white mane back and sending another fiery jet at your half of the legendary Pokémon. "Never. You're blinded, N. Blinded by your dreams of an 'ideal' world. Can't you see that this all," your hand sweeps across to encompass the throne room as cinders flake off your skin, "is pointless?"

Instantaneously, his eyes flash an icy draconian, completely extinguishing the warmth that was once kindled within them. "Pointless? Pointless? Don't you see, Touko?"

With an uncharacteristic howl of rage wrenched from his soul, he launches upwards on Reshiram's back, swiftly ascending the stairs to heaven as the sunlight explodes into the darkening throne room, scaling his hair with an ethereal delicacy and setting it alight, a golden halo sculpting his face and accentuating his smouldering ice-rimmed eyes, momentarily transforming him into a divine seraph. Your breath hitches as the empyrean glow fills your vision, and your mind flickers back to that time so long ago when it was just the two of you in a Ferris wheel, against each other and the world, when things weren't so complicated, when you didn't have to add each other to the list of things you had to lose–

But the unflinching angel wields a shotgun, and bullets rain from the heavens, a blazing inferno fuelled by a mixture of anger and pain.

You don't scream. Your Pokémon does, covered in cuts leaking rivulets of dreadfully beautiful scarlet, but you don't. You don't have to look down on yourself to sense the crimson your body is dyed in, or to see the tattered scraps of skin. You've seen this coming for a long time now.

Your eyes meet his.

And in that moment, your mouths move in unison.

"Fusion Flare."

"Fusion Bolt."

Chaos reigns, ripping utterly through the theatre of war where you were mere puppets dangled from strings and inscribing an impromptu THE END across the red curtains that come crashing down. Scorching wind coalesces before the Yang Dragon's jaw, mirroring the writhing, bulbous orb gathering before the Yin's, and the jets streak simultaneously through the shuddering air where they meet in the centre of a crumbling universe.

There is a pregnant pause.

Then the world is trembling, an intense fission convulsing through the air. Blisters are running down your arms, caressing your legs, penetrating your heart, and the world fades to white as excruciating agony permeates your body.

And you are screaming, screaming your voice hoarse, because your angel is frozen in midair, a ghost of his last scream still etched across his gaping mouth, and his body succumbs to spasms and lances of the shockwaves encasing him in an acrid bulb.

And he is falling, back arching so gracefully if you turned back time, if you were watching from the luxurious comfort of your room back home you would've thought he was a dancer. He is tumbling through the air, slicing through empty space as his flaming arrows had earlier.

And you are finding yourself slowly being dragged down, too, into the tantalising lull of darkness. You struggle desperately against the tranquil respite sleep offers, prying your eyes open with your singed fingers, because no, the battle isn't over yet – N might still be conscious – you are Touko White and Touko White falls for nobody–

Your eyelids slip close as dragon and hero fall as one, engulfed by plumes of smoke.

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You are a battered, sorry excuse for a queen as you crawl from the ember and ashes, a caricature of morbid resplendence in itself. He is in a worse condition, grotesque holes puncturing their positions in his body, from which red drips. Drip, drip, drip– Carmine stains both your clothes, pooling into a glistening puddle by your feet.

You gaze blankly upon his face, his eyes closed and unseeing, worn limbs instinctively curling into a foetal position as if to protect him from the treachery of the outside world. You see innocence carved into stone, a canvas that was once impeccable and pure white but since tainted by splotches of colour. You see ideals that once shone as brightly as shooting stars against the pitch black night sky; hopeful dreams that were dashed seamlessly by a ruthless girl who tried to play hero. Beside him, like a stalwart bodyguard, lies the other hero's dragon, as banged up as the piano keys they slammed on as the battle escalated into a deafening crescendo.

His incensed words echo in your ears. Don't you see?

And finally, finally, you do see.

Tentatively, as if worried he might break, you crawl forth and lean into him, taking him into your arms with a gentleness your rambunctious side hardly ever knows. You fit perfectly into the crook of his arm, like two puzzle pieces specifically shaped for each other. You find yourself falling into his limp arms with a surprising ease, because despite the constant disapproving hisses of your brain that Touko White falls for nobody, you already fell for him long ago.

Tears cascade down like the blood that used to (still does) flow across your skin, and you wait, a broken girl with a broken dream and a broken heart and a broken boy in your arms.

They find you in this exact position: bloody, bruised and utterly, completely broken.

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You awaken with a jolt, jerking up ramrod-straight and breathing heavily, shapeless potato-sack excuse for a hospital gown drenched in cold sweat. There is an intravenous drip plugged into your arm, various other wires criscrossing across your skin to form a phantasmagoric patchwork sealing searing scars beneath the surface, and one word on your lips.

N.

There is one name that pervades the vast land of Unova quicker than a raging wildfire that night. Her name lingers on the lips of many, rolling of their tongues in whispers and shouts dipped in varying tones of shock and rejoice and disdain. Not a single soul doesn't hear of Touko White that day, the rookie who singlehandedly commanded the tremendous strength of the mythological Thunder Dragon, the true hero of the legend, the Trainer who pummelled all of Team Plasma to dust, the symbolic Champion who demanded to know the whereabouts of the fallen Team Plasma's king the moment she roused.

Poor dear, she still won't get over the fact that the bastard's disappeared. Must be the after-effects of the trauma, the nurses murmur sympathetically, understanding smiles plastered over their faces as they whisk away your blemished bed sheets and drape you in swathes of unflattering clinical green.

But they don't understand, and they never will. They never will understand why every second of your day is spent gazing seemingly aimlessly out of the window, sweeping across azure skies and white clouds in search of a majestic ivory dragon and a stream of pale green hair fluttering in the breeze.

They never will understand why you dwell in the encroaching clutches of crepuscular darkness, jolting awake in the most inopportune times of the night as harrowing nightmares tear through your slumber and remind you painfully of the scars that mar your skin, forming interlocking vines of tattoos engraved in permanent red ink.

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You won't give up.

You won't wait for him, of course (you are Touko White and Touko White waits for nobody), but upon being discharged from the hospital, you soon leave its signature cloyingly pungent stench behind, finding yourself tracing your steps back. You start from the decrepit ruins of N's castle, wander down to the Dragonspiral Tower, trek through Chargestone Cave, slip into the amusement park after dark and ride the Ferris wheel up to the stars.

Occasionally, when you lie under the sky and stare up into the moon, you think you hear your fallen angel's laugh of unalloyed joy reverberating through the air from another galaxy.

Even if the gossamer-thin thread connecting you to him snaps, you'll never give up searching. You'll rake the earth and sail the seas, turning over every stone lying in your path and piecing together the fragments until you form a flawed, but nevertheless complete picture of you and him. You won't stop until you see his eyes sparkle, the corners of his mouth tilt upwards into a smile again.

It's a sliver of hope not worth giving up.

If you close your eyes, you can still hear his toxichauntingenchanting laughter echoing in the wind.

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Fin.

((Published 1 October 2013))

A/N: The "Touko White falls for nobody" repetition is a pun; it can mean fall in the literal sense or falling in love. (I alternate between the two definitions depending on the context throughout the fic.)

Done for the Beginning is the End is the Beginning Contest, the Key Signature Competition (B major and B minor), and the General Prompt Challenge (16: mars), all on the Pokémon Fanfiction Challenges forum.

Thanks for reading! Don't hesitate to leave a review and tell me what you think. :)

~TLoC