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The tension was tense enough that it was tangible. Its presence was dense and cloying, strong and physical enough that they could use it as an object upon which to hang their history and decorate it with their ambition and their drive and the will that had drawn them together.
When every life meets another life, something will be born.
The crowds around them had initially been uninvested. These were two trainers who held no title nor stature. Introductions by the announcers had referenced their respective, impressive resumes of tournament rankings and achievements littered between them like skins they had shed in becoming the people they are.
Paul extended a hand loftily, his focus clear. It would be the call that decided the match. Pikachu panted, on the last of his reserves. Torterra towered over him, unsteady on his legs.
“Leaf Storm,” he said, his voice quiet. Ash had to strain to hear him. Over the roar of the crowd, the noise was swallowed so easily, and so far in the match, they had both shouted their commands with such whole bodied volume it had left his voice raspy and hoarse.
“Ready Pikachu?” Ash called, grounding his heels into the dirt floor of the stadium between them. Pikachu’s tail swished from one side to another, a crackle of static buzzing over the red spots at his cheek. “Iron Tail!”
Responding immediately, Pikachu bounced. As Torterra shook foliage from the great tree upon his shell that began to spin ominously around his shell, Pikachu’s tail melted into a metallic silver, sharpening at the edges like the blade of a sword. Torterra’s Leaf Storm shivered ominously around the continental Pokemon, but as Paul lowered his hand, half of the leaves began to spin out hazardously like released shuriken.
Pikachu was faster than Paul had seemingly anticipated, and Ash felt himself grin. The lithe electric mouse dipped in and out of the oncoming greenery like paper caught in a breeze, light and airy as he navigated each oncoming projectile. As Pikachu grew closer to the target, Ash felt his shoulders fall lower and the tension ease out of his shoulders. Relief flooded him. Pikachu was a second away.
Paul grinned, his teeth sharp. A shiver traveled down Ash’s spine.
“Counter shield,” he said in a simple voice. The leaves that lingered in Torterra’s vicinity flew back towards him and formed a direct, full frontal shield that Pikachu slammed directly into, losing all momentum and power in the collision.
“No!” Ash’s cry was so foreign to him that he barely recognised the noise. It was part plea, part desperation, and part heartbreak. Pikachu floundered in the debris of the leaves, disoriented, when Torterra came to stand over him for the winning blow.
Paul narrowed his eyes, lethal and unforgiving. “Earthquake.” His voice almost purred. Ash gaped as the ground beneath them began to quiver, and in moments, Pikachu was surrounded by shards of the arena field breaking from the earth, dust and consequences choked in the air. As the ground began to shake violently, Pikachu howled for help, collapsing under the weight of the earth as it moved to swallow the electric type whole.
“Pikachu!” Ash cried, a rasp from a day full of loud, plaintive cries in full force. Forgoing the rules, he sprinted out onto the pitch. Vaguely he could hear the sound of a whistle, and the slight tingle of a bell.
The sunset overhead was a welcoming sign that the day was drawing to an end. Ash sat on the benches at the front of Wyndon stadium, staring at the sky. The streaks of pink and amber refracting through clouds in a dewy sky were beautiful, but they offered him no comfort. His Pokemon were with Nurse Joy, a phone call away from him, and Goh was booking their tickets back to Kanto for their much earlier than anticipated exit from Galar.
He bunched his cap between his hands, twisting the red fabric anxiously. Pikachu had been in an awful state after their battle; how could he not have been? Neither Ash nor Pikachu knew how to face Paul without sacrificing every atom of themselves. A weight in his chest like no other, he stared down the stairs that led to the rest of the bustling city of Wyndon and waited for time to pass and for his Pokemon to be returned to him, safe and well.
A presence he hadn’t expected obstructed his view. Paul, the same Paul he had watched release those fateful Starly, the same Paul he hadn’t seen since his days in Sinnoh, the same Paul that had denied him entry to the Master's Eight of the PWC, was approaching. He walked up each step with an unparalleled sense of purpose, and bitterly, Ash awaited his inevitable taunts.
It was a small price to pay for giving it his all, and for doing so without sacrificing his values.
“Paul,” Ash anticipated his greeting, standing and meeting his eye bravely before he could speak. Paul looked up at him, his approach slow and steady, and did not reply until they stood eye to eye, their feet on the same level. Now on even ground, face to face, Ash realised that Paul stood an inch or so taller than him, just ever so slightly out of reach.
“Ash.” Paul’s tone was unreadable, and his expression wildly neutral.
“Congratulations,” Ash intoned politely, working hard to keep a bitter air from his tone. He would never begrudge someone their achievements, no matter how much they wounded him. Ash looked away. “I suppose,” he tried to laugh, “you’re here to tell me I was pathetic.”
Paul raised an eyebrow, not saying anything for a moment, waiting for Ash’s expression to soften once more. As it did, Ash sighed, and kicked the ground under his feet.
“It’s good to see you again,” Ash continued, not caring and certainly not surprised that Paul had not responded to his recognition. “I always wondered what kind of road you’d go down after the Lily of the Valley Conference. Your Pokemon are in real good shape,” he conceded, meeting his rival's eye. “It was a good battle.”
“Why did you assume,” Paul replied tersely, “that I think you are pathetic?”
Ash blinked, surprised, and then shoved his hands into his pockets. He wished he had Pikachu with him as a buffer, someone at his shoulder to look at and bounce off. Without him, he felt vulnerable. Paul was settled in himself, used to navigating conversations alone. He leant his weight back on one foot, balanced neatly and casually. It was jarringly informal, and Ash faintly wondered if this was Paul’s equivalent of acting friendly.
“Uh,” Ash shrugged, “old habits?” Paul blinked, the corner of his lip twitching as though this tugged on a funny memory. An injoke. A bridge between them. Ash was disorientated.
“I wanted to show you something,” Paul said quietly. His outfit had changed over the years, new clothes to fit a taller frame, but the same style remained of simple, loose, comfortable, and practical in all weathers. Tugging the zip of a synthetic grey jacket down, he revealed to Ash a black t-shirt with a pocket that sat slightly to the left of his breastbone. It bulged pointedly, and from within it, he fished out a small spherical bell on a red string, decorated with a yellow ribbon.
Ash instinctively took a step towards it, remembering it vividly.
“You don’t have that,” Ash stated dumbly. Paul raised an eyebrow, otherwise expressionless. “Seriously, you don’t. Your soothe bell is on my desk in my house. So you can’t have it with you, that’s not possible.”
“I got another one,” Paul told him thinly, his voice pinched. Ash swallowed thickly. “To remind me of lessons I learned.”
“Lessons?” Ash repeated, his mouth dry.
“From you.” Paul pocketed the bell again.
“Oh.” Not sure what to say, Ash stared at the circular shape that jutted out in the fabric of his shirt. As though uncomfortable with this, Paul zipped his jacket back up, safely binding it back to his chest snugly. “Would you like yours back? The one you won?”
“No.” Paul shook his head, his neck stiff. “This one is fine.”
Neither of them spoke for a while, a breeze moving between them. After long, lingering moments of watching the other for a potential change, a break in the tension, a move to say more, Paul opened his mouth as though to speak again. He was interrupted before sound left his mouth, Ash’s phone buzzing intrusively from his jeans. Apology rife in his eyes, he fished it out and checked it.
“My Pokemon are ready to be collected,” he mumbled numbly, before shoving it unceremoniously into his jacket. Paul nodded, understanding.
“See you.” He turned on his heel and started as though to make his way back down the stairs and off into a city in which Ash had no chance of tracking him down. Preventatively, Ash’s hand shot out and grabbed Paul’s sleeve, halting him from leaving.
“Wait,” he said quietly, with a little more confidence in his voice. Paul paused, turning back to Ash with a muted silence, but undeniable curiosity. “I, uh,” Ash choked, trying to find the words. Finally, he swallowed, and gave Paul a brighter, more burning smile. “You gotta win in the Master's Eight you know. For both of us.”
Paul didn’t reply, but there was a glimmer of recognition in his eye.
“And next time,” Ash grinned, “I’ll take you down.”
Lowering his head slightly, Paul closed his eyes and let his lip curl into a smug smile. “You can try,” he scorned, inflammatory in tone but hopeful in intent. Ash knew that this meant that Paul was looking forward to it, too.
With that, Ash released his sleeve and watched quietly as Paul exited. Slowly, gradually, he lost the form of the rival he knew and became an undefined blue spec in the work of art that Wyndon laid out before him, full of mystery and potential amongst a world of people he had never met.
Ash’s hand went to his own breast pocket and touched the soothe bell he carried there too, reassuring himself it was still there.