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teamflareTitle: So Long as We Can Say
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: In the aftermath of victory, Lysandre discovers that triumph without peril indeed brings no glory. In more ways than one.
Notes: This is the fic, the one I started early on in the fandom, abandoned a year later, and then finished EIGHT YEARS after posting the first chapter. It's also the starting point for a whole series. Warning for Major Character Death (although it doesn't last) and heavy angst, especially in the early chapters. This is a story about Lysandre succeeding in his plans and then having a really bad time about it. Title is from Shakespeare's King Lear.
AO3 Link: Here.
"Lysandre? Are you alright?"
The sound of that voice made his body jerk and his eyes open. For a second that lasted much too long he didn't understand where he was; expected to be met with a dead man and a world half in ruins.
Instead, he was sitting in his café, the air warm and pleasant like the most charming of kalosian summers. A few people were sitting at the nearby tables, chatting happily, finishing up their meals. It was dark outside – nearing nightfall, it seemed.
Lysandre blinked.
At the other end of the table he was sitting at, Augustine Sycamore stared at him with concern. "Really, Lysandre, is everything fine? You look very pale."
In his mind, Lysandre felt compelled to curse out Dialga for sending him back at that exact moment – but he couldn't exactly complain. He had gotten what he wanted, in the end.
Holding on to that thought, he smiled. Something about it must have been surprising because Sycamore looked troubled.
"My apologies, I am exhausted," Lysandre said much more calmly than he'd expected. "I do believe I had begun to doze off– what were we discussing, exactly?"
He was doing his best to remember when he was, exactly, but his memory had become busy with images of death and despair, of broken-down houses and corpses covering the streets, of Bryony's anxiety and Malva's tears. Remembering his life before all of this was proving difficult.
The professor smiled, and he definitely looked fond. Maybe not as much as Bryony had been before they had to part, but close. Lysandre found the realization both exhilarating and terrifying. Had she been right? Could he have really been that blind?
"We were discussing my time as a student under Professor Rowan, I can understand that this could bore you." Sycamore laughed and took a sip of his wine. Lysandre felt suddenly mortified that he could have come off as uninterested in what the other man was recounting.
"Not at all," he said, and Sycamore watched him talk from behind his wine glass. "You're always a delight to listen to."
That was definitely too much. He wasn't quite himself – he literally wasn't the person he was when they'd originally had that conversation. Sycamore looked away as he put his glass down a bit too quickly – it hit his empty plate and made an unpleasant sound. His face was – to Lysandre's absolute terror – slightly red.
It had to be the wine.
Of course it was the wine.
Lysandre blinked again. Was he always practicing denial that vigorously? He was starting to feel somewhat pathetic.
"Um," Sycamore mumbled, playing with his rolled-up sleeve as if to distract himself from the situation, "thank you."
It occurred to Lysandre that he was actually here to fix what he'd done, and not to flirt with Augustine Sycamore. The memory of his corpse crossed his mind and made him pale further. He drank what was left in his own glass in one go.
What was it that he'd done to ensure everything would go well for him, last time? He'd always made sure not to be too obvious about his plans, although he'd never hidden his ideals. The professor had always seemed reluctant to disagree with him directly, and he'd always tried to stay out of his business. He thought back to what they'd apparently been discussing earlier – Sycamore's apprenticeship under Rowan. Could he remember Sycamore ever mentioning wanting to teach? Perhaps, if he had a stronger support system–
"Actually, since we're talking about your time as a student," Lysandre said as he put his glass down. Sycamore looked at him a bit tentatively, but he seemed calmer. "Have you ever thought about sharing your knowledge with the young yourself?"
Sycamore looked pleased by the inquiry, although maybe embarrassed as well.
"Well, I did teach you for a while," he replied, and it felt as if he was almost– teasing him?
There was an entirely new spectrum of behaviors he was reading, and an entirely new set of emotions he was feeling as a result. It was admittedly overwhelming.
"I wouldn't exactly call myself young by any stretch," Lysandre said, letting his mouth curl into a smile.
That made the professor laugh again, loud and warm, and the sound made Lysandre's whole body relax into his chair.
"I feel kind of insulted, considering our age difference," Sycamore retorted. He didn't sound insulted at all.
"I was referring to the age range you were in when you were following Professor Rowan's guidance."
"I know." The tone was definitely teasing now. Lysandre picked up the wine bottle and proceeded to pour them more wine to keep his hands busy and hide his nervosity. "But, to answer your question, I don't know... I don't think I'd really be qualified for it. I'm already a handful for my assistants."
Lysandre frowned at that, deep in thought once again. He tried to recall the name of Sycamore's two assistants but could only remember the corpse of the woman, cold and lifeless at his feet. He grimaced and decided to drink more wine.
"You shouldn't dismiss your abilities like this," he said, glass in hand. "You're a very skilled teacher."
Sycamore's face was getting red again and Lysandre felt a thrill at the realization that he was the one provoking such strong reactions. Still, he tried to tell himself that they were simply getting drunk – but there was no mistaking the glances the professor was giving him.
Arceus – Dialga? –, he'd been such a misguided fool.
"So many compliments, tonight," Sycamore said with a slight smile. "Are you planning something? Trying to get in my good graces?"
It was a joke, of course – more teasing, flirting perhaps – but Lysandre froze, avoiding the other man's eyes. Sycamore's happy expression faltered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply–"
"It's alright," Lysandre shook his head, regaining his composure as promptly as he could manage. "I think I've underestimated my own fatigue."
He lifted his glass to his lips once more before changing his mind and putting it back down. No sense in actually getting himself drunk, especially in this situation. Sycamore had taken on a worried expression once again, frowning a little.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked. Lysandre took a look around the café. Clients were becoming more scarce. His employees were busy cleaning up the last remaining tables.
"Not at all," he said and gave his friend a tired smile. "Truly, professor, I was sincere. You would do wonders with your own pupils."
Sycamore looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear clumsily, but from the way his smile widened Lysandre could tell he was pleased.
"I'll be sure to consider it."
They spoke for a little while longer, and Lysandre found himself reluctant to let him go. Worse, he felt compelled to touch him, to take his hands in his and make sure they were warm and alive. At some point, while Sycamore was recounting a time he'd gotten in trouble with another apprentice, Lysandre stopped listening and only focused on staring at his moving lips and the way he wet them from time to time as he was pausing to take a breath. He was sure the professor had noticed, but neither of them could will themselves to bring it up. Instead, Sycamore smiled at him in a way that he could only describe as smug.
His employees were long gone, and his body was begging for a chance to lie down when Lysandre finally stood to say goodbye to his friend. They would see each other the next day, of course – he would make sure of that.
When Sycamore neared the door, Lysandre took him by the arm before he could stop himself, and gaped at him when he realized what he'd done. Sycamore chuckled.
"You really need to get some rest," he said, and there was undoubtedly tenderness in his voice. Lysandre let go of his arm.
"Don't forget," he said as firmly as he could. "The pupils."
Sycamore held his arm and smiled at him.
"Don't worry about it. Bonne nuit, Lysandre."
Lysandre's reply was a faint mumble, and by the time the bell at the door was signifying someone had left he was still standing at the exact same spot. He felt dizzy but relieved. It was only as he crossed the threshold to the elevator, once he was done tidying up what they had left, that he was hit by the realization that his pokémons were still alive.
When he unlocked the door to his apartment to be greeted by the intense stare of his pyroar, he felt his heart leap in his chest. The sensation was so intense that he almost thought it would bring him to tears; instead, he knelt down, not even bothering to close the door, and embraced the scorching mane of his long-time companion. He held him until the side of his face began to hurt. He'd almost forgotten this: the sharp burning pain on contact with that fiery hair, the fur in-between his fingers, the calm rhythm of a pokémon's breathing. His pyroar seemed merely mildly puzzled, staring back at him with a kind of serene understanding.
Lysandre opened his mouth to say something, anything to express the relief he felt at that moment but found that he couldn't. Instead, he beckoned the pokémon to follow him on an elevator ride toward one of the basements.
The soft blue glow of the gigantic aquarium immediately soothed his spirits. He'd had it installed not long after securing the building for his café – among other things – just so his gyarados could remain in an environment that would suit him outside of the comfort of his pokéball. The glass was warm under the palm of his hand. His pyroar sat next to him, watching the light shimmer through the water.
"I'm sorry," Lysandre whispered. His gyarados emerged slowly out of the darkness, shiny blue scales and sharp red eyes. He made no sound, instead bumping the top of his head against the glass, where Lysandre's hand was. "I missed you too."
He felt exhausted, suddenly, as if everything was catching up to him at once. Still, he stood in front of the aquarium until his pyroar nudged at his knee to urge him to get some rest. That night, he slept a dreamless sleep, and in the morning almost wondered whether it could be possible that everything that had happened before this day had been a fever dream.
*
The machine was exactly as he remembered it: tall and cold, dark and menacing. It filled the whole room and towered over everything else.
Lysandre had loved it, back then: loved the power, the grandeur, the feeling of being so close to getting what he wanted, what he deserved. He should have been ashamed of it but at the time he'd let himself enjoy it, considered it a fair prize for carrying on his duty. He could be proud of this, he thought. He could savor this feeling.
He remembered the sad, smoldering carcass that was left after the fact, the bits and pieces of metal on the floor, the cracks on the ceiling, the sour smell of smoke in the air. There had been nothing to be proud of, then.
When Xerosic entered the room, he was still staring at the machine. It was empty – a small relief.
"Boss," Xerosic said, and hearing his voice, his usual voice – not the sad, defeated tone or the hysterics – made something tug in Lysandre's chest. He turned around to look at him and smiled.
"Xerosic. You are right on time."
"Of course," the pale man said. He seemed perplexed by the way Lysandre was acting; maybe it was to be expected. "You said you thought about our plans regarding the device?"
"Yes," Lysandre replied, and he turned his head back to look at it once more. "I believe Yveltal should suffice to activate it. Please do not try to force it to run, I fear it might damage it."
Xerosic's mouth curved downward in a very unpleasant manner. "But– boss, you said–"
"I've changed my mind," Lysandre said, glancing at him. His tone didn't allow for discussion. Xerosic let his head fall and did his best to hide his disappointment.
"In that case, we need to make sure we secure the artifact needed to trigger the blast," he said with only a note of bitterness in his voice.
Lysandre nodded.
"I will give the order."
He gave the machine one last look and walked away, toward Xerosic. The scientist seemingly expected him to be marching toward the exit, and as such when Lysandre stopped near him he stared at him in confusion. For a second Lysandre contemplated putting his hand on his shoulder – then he decided against it.
"How's your malamar?" he asked instead.
If Xerosic could have gotten any paler, he probably would have.
"Nero?" he said, incredulous. "He's fine. Is there something wrong?"
Lysandre looked away. "Everything is fine. We'll talk tomorrow."
With that, he walked out, leaving a dumbfounded Xerosic behind.
*
The anxiety he felt regarding the prospect of seeing Bryony again – the old Bryony, happy and vibrant and ready to crush any opponent under her boot – was somehow much greater than the one he'd felt once confronted with the real Sycamore. He suspected that it was mostly because he'd been thrown into the situation before he could fully dread it; even then, it still seemed surprising. In truth, he didn't have any kind of relationship with that Bryony. Perhaps that was what he feared above everything else.
He called a meeting in one of the offices of their headquarters and pretended he was reading notes he'd left there at some point as his scientists walked in. He sneaked a glance at Mable, remembering the foreign feeling of her lips on his. Did she already carry feelings for him? She noticed him staring and blushed darkly, unsettled. He cleared his throat.
"Thank you very much for coming," he said as he stood. He looked up and couldn't help but pale upon being confronted with the sight of Celosia, standing and alive, awaiting his orders.
She was right next to Bryony, of course. They were always close, but never obvious, perhaps afraid that he might disapprove of them dating as colleagues. Maybe they thought he disapproved of love as a distraction from their goals in general. That seemed like something the person he used to be would believe in.
He tried his best not to stare at Bryony. He had no desire to scare her away.
"I need you to coordinate our searches for the key that will be used to activate the machine," he said solemnly, crossing his arms behind his back. "You will need to be on the lookout for a man double my height. A giant, if you will."
Aliana's lips curled into a sarcastic smile. "That shouldn't be too hard."
He couldn't see it with the visor, but he was certain Mable had rolled her eyes at her intervention.
"Do you know where we should be looking precisely?" Celosia asked, focused. Lysandre managed to hide how odd it was to hear her voice again after so long.
"Unfortunately, we cannot be sure yet," he said. "You might want to start with the surroundings of Lumiose. There is a strong possibility that he is not sedentary, so I'm confident we will find him eventually. Don't be afraid to send out recruits after him."
They nodded, almost in sync. He felt strangely proud that he'd been able to find such competent subordinates. He gestured that the meeting was over, but as Bryony moved to leave with Celosia, he couldn't help himself.
"Bryony, a word," he called out, his voice perfectly neutral in an attempt not to alarm her.
She shot Celosia a worried look – at least, that's what he assumed – but the purple-haired woman smiled at her reassuringly. They whispered to each other for a minute, probably so they could meet up later, and then Celosia left the room, leaving Lysandre and Bryony alone.
He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. She seemed convinced he was going to scold her; he could tell from the way she was standing, her anxiety plain in her face pointed downward and her feet together.
"I've noticed you and Celosia have gotten close," he said, careful and kind – but she still froze, her shoulders tense.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, playing with her hair. "We thought you might not like it, but..."
"Oh, no," Lysandre said quickly, shaking his head. "Not at all. I see no issues with it. I am glad our work can serve to unite the chosen ones in such a way," he added with a smile.
This seemed to calm her down somewhat, though his demeanor was apparently confusing every person he had been interacting with since he'd come back. She tried to smile, demure.
"That's a relief," she said. Then, she seemed struck by a thought, but maybe unsure whether to reveal it or not. She looked away.
"Is something on your mind?" he asked.
"Hm, well," Bryony mumbled, her cheeks reddening slightly, "it's just... what you said, about uniting chosen ones..."
"Yes?"
She smiled, more in an attempt to hide her embarrassment than out of any kind of joy or good humor. "Have you ever thought about inviting Professor Sycamore to join us?"
Lysandre blinked. He remembered the conversation they'd had about this, in another lifetime: she'd talked about how obvious it was that the professor had feelings for him, how it was a shame neither of them had ever tried to breach the polite distance between them.
Bryony appeared to take his stunned silence as proof that she'd made a bad move, and grimaced.
"I'm sorry," she said for the second time in less than ten minutes.
"No, it's alright," Lysandre said, and he even managed to smile. "I understand. However, I doubt the professor would agree with our... methods. I fear he might not want to associate with me at all if I were to express my goals to him in clearer terms."
Her lips curled down in sadness or perhaps disappointment. Whether it was at the idea that he couldn't be fully honest or at the fact that Augustine Sycamore would never join them, he could only guess. Maybe it was a mix of both.
"I see," she said quietly.
"You should go now," Lysandre said, and he pretended he had to go through his notes again. He took a handful and looked at them even though he'd completely forgotten what most of them referred to. "Celosia must be waiting for you."
"Yes," she said, her smile creeping back up on her face. "We'll work hard to find that giant man, rest assured."
He looked up from his notes as she walked toward the exit.
"I have no doubts about it," he replied with a confident smile.
Once she was gone, he let himself fall onto the nearest chair and sighed. Saving the world was proving to be a very stressful endeavor. He felt exhausted again, and he needed to go see Sycamore now, meet him at the lab, talk to him... touch him, he thought, hot and fast. He almost missed the cold caresses of his dead imaginary friend.
The thought of living, warm hands on his body was too much. He resolved to shower and go to the laboratory swiftly.
*
Time suddenly seemed to pass much faster now that he knew he was working against it. He wanted to hold on to the afternoons he could spend with Augustine Sycamore, but they kept slipping through his fingers with a cold inevitability.
The professor let him invite him to his café again, alone this time. When Lysandre tried to remember how things had gone the first time he'd lived this life, he found the memories involving Sycamore to be scarce and hazy and wondered whether they could have simply been dreams.
Someone had set up candles on the counter, illuminating the café in a way that came off as a lot more intimate than either of them were used to. Lysandre suspected it was Bryony.
"It looks like some of my employees took it upon themselves to set the scene for us," he said, aiming for casual. Sycamore's smile was making him a lot more nervous than he wanted to let on.
"It's lovely," Sycamore said, almost in a sigh. He sat at the one table they'd prepared for them and waited for Lysandre to join him.
This wasn't exactly part of the plan: the plan was a lot more austere and probably ended in him dying, or passing off as dead. Maybe that was why he'd let himself enjoy one self-indulgent moment of weakness. Lysandre tried not to frown at his own shortcomings as he took hold of the chair facing his friend.
"You're different," Sycamore said as soon as he sat. "You've been acting differently since our talk a few weeks ago."
Lysandre picked up the bottle of wine he'd carefully chosen the day before and proceeded to open it. "I'm afraid I haven't noticed any changes in my behavior myself."
"Of course not," Sycamore said, sounding amused by the prospect. He watched him pour them enough wine to be able to taste it. Lysandre lifted his glass to his nose and took a deep breath before taking a sip. He swallowed after a few seconds.
"Don't you want to try it?" he asked once he was done, as his friend hadn't even moved to take his glass in hand.
"I trust your judgment," Sycamore said with a smile wide enough to make his eyes narrow. He poured himself more wine and then took a sip.
Lysandre stared as he drank, his brow furrowed, his mouth hanging slightly open. That made the other man laugh, and then pour him a full glass of wine.
"Like I said, you're different," Sycamore went on as Lysandre drank carefully. "Not in a bad way, just... different. More relaxed, maybe."
Lysandre thought it over, holding his glass in his hand. He did feel a lot more at ease than he remembered feeling before all of this. To say that he was more relaxed than he was when he'd just destroyed the world was a grave understatement. Mostly, he felt... better. It was vague, but it was true. The confidence he felt in this new mission was a lot more comforting than the pride he'd felt regarding the previous one. The fact that he could now enjoy quality time with Augustine Sycamore was a welcome bonus, although he wasn't sure he was willing to linger on that factor.
Instead, he smiled, rolling his glass between his fingers.
"Do you believe in fate, professor?"
Sycamore seemed to consider the question very seriously before answering, his eyes following the movements of the wine glass. "I'd say yes. Why? Do you think we were fated to meet?"
Lysandre made a face and put his glass back down on the table.
"Perhaps that was too forward of me," he said before he could stop himself.
He was about to go on with an apology when Sycamore brushed his fingertips against the hand he'd pressed on the table next to his glass. The contact made Lysandre look up to meet his gaze.
"I feel very blessed to have met you," Sycamore said, his pale blue eyes staring right into him.
It was– Lysandre wanted to tell him that he bore no blessing, more likely a curse. There was no denying that sincere gaze, though. He felt very warm, all of a sudden.
"I feel the same way," he murmured. Sycamore looked pleased, and his hand was still very close to his. Lysandre stood up. "I will bring our meal."
The professor nodded, to Lysandre's great relief.
He took his time putting the plates together, seizing the opportunity to recompose himself. He had minimal experience when it came to these matters: forming close, intimate relationships was usually the means to an end, and to that there was the added challenge of dishonesty. He could be honest about his feelings, but he could not be honest about anything else. It was too early to be found out: he needed to find AZ, he needed to make sure the machine couldn't be used anymore. He needed to ruin all of his chances to pull this off, and that required, in the plan he'd come up with over the weeks, to follow his previous plan almost all the way through.
When he returned to the room he found his friend absentmindedly playing with his glass, tugging at it with his index finger. Sycamore looked up at him and smiled.
"Antipasto," Lysandre announced as he set the plates on the table.
Sycamore's delight was palpable. He clasped his hands together with great enthusiasm. "This is so colorful, Lysandre!"
"Hm," Lysandre replied, taking his seat once again. "Thank you. There is no meat in it," he added.
This seemed to be the opposite of surprising. Sycamore merely nodded and then proceeded to shovel an alarming amount of vegetables into his mouth. It was far from exquisite table manners, but the eagerness more than made up for it.
Lysandre took a bite of what was on his own plate and immediately found himself critical of what he'd come up with. The seasoning could have been more balanced and the vegetables fresher. Focusing on food was making this encounter a lot less daunting to deal with.
Across the table, Sycamore let out what could only be described as an overwhelmingly pleased moan.
"I'm sorry, I'm eating like a real tepig," he said after having thoroughly wiped his mouth, his eyes glinting with something that was half-apologetic, half-ecstatic. "This is so good, though, Lysandre, your food is always so wonderful."
Lysandre cleared his throat. "You flatter me."
"Actually, you know, this actually has nothing to do with anything, but," Sycamore started, before pausing to take another mouthful of antipasto, "I've thought about what we've been discussing a few times, about taking students."
He was trying very hard not to speak with his mouth full, but only succeeding halfway. Lysandre hid his smile behind his tablecloth.
"Yes? Did you come to any positive conclusions?" he inquired, hopeful.
Sycamore swallowed a particularly hefty bite with some of his wine. "Turns out Grace Primrose is moving to Vaniville Town in a few months! Dexio heard all about it, apparently. That boy would make a great spy."
He punctuated his last words by chewing on his food thoughtfully. Lysandre bit the inside of his cheek.
"Is that so? The retired rhydon racer?"
"Herself, and she has a son! Seems like a perfect candidate, if you ask me. I'm sure he'll have picked up a few things from his mom."
Lysandre made a non-committal noise at that, trying to summon Grace Primrose's appearance from his memory. He seemed to remember her being a fairly good-looking woman, a fact that was bothering him for reasons he didn't particularly want to ponder.
"There's also those kids who come around the lab sometimes," Sycamore went on, and Lysandre suddenly realized the professor had already managed to swallow three-quarters of his plate's contents. "That blonde girl, the one with the ponytail, do you recall?"
The description was vaguely familiar. Lysandre frowned.
"Isn't she the daughter of some famous battlers?"
Sycamore nodded, swallowing his mouthful too quickly. He coughed and then proceeded to empty his glass in an attempt to fix his mistake. Lysandre filled his own glass, thinking about the children who'd sometimes come to the laboratory to see the pokémons or ask questions about training. He'd always found it encouraging, a sign that there were still people out there that could possess the drive to make the world a better place.
"Yeah, and she has that group of friends, I think they're all from Vaniville, actually," Sycamore added when he'd finally managed to clear his throat. "So, that works out wonderfully! Fate, like we said."
Lysandre couldn't help but smile.
"You're eating too fast," he said, perhaps in a slightly too paternalistic fashion. Sycamore lifted one eyebrow, his mouth full once more. "Wouldn't too many students be harder to manage for you?"
"Hey now, you're the one who suggested this in the first place. I just figured I might as well start big, that way at least one of them will stick. Plus, I really do need people who can experiment with mega-evolution outside of the lab... Arceus knows Dexio and Sina are in over their heads already."
Staring at Sycamore's empty plate, Lysandre nodded. It wasn't such a bad plan. In truth, it was exactly what he wanted, and more: people who would be able to get in his way, even if they were children and lab assistants. He had faith in the professor and knew that whoever he chose would be perfect.
"You're not hungry?" Sycamore asked after a short silence. Lysandre rolled his eyes.
"I can only dream to ever be as ravenous as you are," he retorted with a poorly contained smirk. "Watching you eat is enough to feed me, it seems."
"Really?" Sycamore said at that, and he was smirking as well, and Lysandre was fairly certain the atmosphere was slipping toward flirtation once again. He stood up and picked up the plates.
He said nothing as he walked back to the kitchen, but his heartbeat was annoyingly loud in his ears. When he came back with a new bottle of wine and the main dish, Sycamore was busy reading the label of the bottle they'd just emptied.
"Lysandre," he said, frowning, "how much did this cost, exactly?"
"Polenta," Lysandre replied, putting the plate down, his expression as neutral as ever. "You do like mushrooms, don't you?"
Sycamore sighed, but the sight of the new dish brightened up his mood immediately. "I'd eat anything you cook for me, and that includes poison," he enthused.
With something that was suspiciously close to a snort, Lysandre walked to the counter to bring his own plate. He opened the new wine bottle before sitting down to pour some for both of them without even bothering to taste it.
"Should I gather you believe me capable of poisoning you, then?" he asked as Sycamore took his first cheerful bite of polenta.
The fact that they were more or less discussing whether or not Lysandre could be trusted should have made him more anxious, but suddenly his guilt and resolve were melting away, carried out by warm wine and Sycamore's relentless enthusiasm for his cooking.
"I wouldn't dare," Sycamore finally replied after swallowing loudly. "This tastes so good, though, it should be illegal."
"If it were illegal, you wouldn't be able to taste it," Lysandre pointed out. He lifted his glass and took a sip.
Sycamore laughed. "Now that'd be quite a shame."
Lysandre took a cautious bite of his own polenta and decided that it was a far greater success than his antipasto could ever wish to be. Judging by his noises of appreciation, Sycamore agreed. For several minutes, they ate in silence, too focused on the food to think about anything else.
It was Sycamore who finally spoke again, after downing a full glass of wine in one go. Unsurprisingly, his plate was already almost empty.
"What have you been up to, lately? You haven't talked about your ideas and plans in a while." He stabbed a particularly large mushroom piece with his fork before carefully slicing it in two. "I kind of miss it."
Lysandre cleared his throat. "I'm afraid my most recent affairs have been dreadfully boring. I'm far more content discussing your future students."
The professor's eyes were alight with a mix of amusement and puzzlement. Lysandre tried not to stare into them for too long.
"That's funny," Sycamore said. Instead of clarifying what, exactly, was funny, he busied himself with quickly consuming what was left of his dish. Lysandre frowned.
This dinner had proven to be quite an interesting event, although he was still somewhat anxious as to how it was going to end. He couldn't deny that coming clean about his feelings would be quite cathartic – not to mention, quite pleasurable, were the feelings in question to indeed be reciprocated – but he found the idea to be mostly terrifying still. What would even happen to them afterward?
What indeed, Sycamore's pale eyes seemed to say, watching him as if they knew something he didn't. For a quick, disconcerting moment, Lysandre couldn't help being reminded of the other Sycamore – the dead, fake one – and his tendency to act as if he was ahead of him at all times. A tendency which, of course, proved to be quite ridiculous once you considered the fact that that Sycamore was nothing more than himself.
Lysandre's frown deepened, unsure how exactly he'd ended up reflecting on such pointless matters. He poured himself more wine, moving to do the same for Sycamore. The professor gave a short nod. He wiped his mouth and sighed deeply.
"Is there more?" he asked. It was hard to say whether he was eager, or worried.
"Of course. I made dessert."
Sycamore leaned against his chair, arching his back slightly. "Is there another bottle of wine to go with the dessert?"
"No," Lysandre said. He tried to stay solemn but when Sycamore raised one eyebrow at him, he couldn't suppress his smile. "I bought champagne."
"You don't like champagne," Sycamore remarked, letting his head fall against the back of his chair.
"I thought it was appropriate for a celebration, especially one that involves apple pie."
At that, Lysandre rose from his chair once again to pick up their plates and bring them back to the kitchen.
Sycamore perked up, suddenly looking ready to eat at least twice more food than he'd already ingested. "You're spoiling me," he moaned in a tone that Lysandre found both extremely pleasing and astonishingly inappropriate. "What are we celebrating?"
"Your future students, of course." Lysandre smirked as he walked toward the kitchen.
Sycamore chuckled.
"I don't know if this is reasonable," he said when Lysandre came back with a full, glistening pie and a fancy bottle of champagne. Nevertheless, he watched intently as Lysandre settled the pie on the counter and cut a generous slice of it.
"We can allow ourselves to indulge just for tonight, I think." Lysandre put the plate down in front of his friend.
"You know I can't say no to this," Sycamore sighed. He gave up on the idea of eating properly before even trying, and picked up the slice to bury his teeth into the soft, sugary apples.
Lysandre sat down with his own, much smaller slice, and cut into it slowly. He was stalling, somewhat; he still had no idea what was going to happen once they were done eating. He chewed on a bit of apple and opened the champagne, careful to tilt it away from the table.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Sycamore said while Lysandre filled the new glass he'd brought for him to the brim.
"Are you drunk?" Lysandre asked, taking a sip from his own glass. He couldn't stop himself from grimacing a little: it was very good champagne, but very good champagne still had the disgusting aftertaste of champagne. He resolved to drink all of it either way.
Sycamore considered the question, pushing the little piece of crust he was left with into his open mouth.
"S'hard to tell," he mumbled after he was done chewing. "I feel pretty good, though."
Lysandre smiled. He had to admit he felt rather light and warm himself, although his body weight did help when it came to withstanding the effects of alcohol. "I'm always glad to hear that."
"I always feel good when I'm with you," Sycamore added quickly. He paused, eyes narrowed, before adding, "Okay, maybe I'm a little bit drunk."
Despite this, he still brought his glass to his lips and swallowed at least half of what was in it. Lysandre stared at the bottom of his own glass.
"That was weird," Sycamore hammered, apologetic. "Sorry."
"It's alright," Lysandre replied, looking up to meet unfocused but very warm eyes.
He was convinced there was something else he meant to say – was supposed to say, even – but instead he frowned, and drank what was left in his own glass. He looked down at his plate and wondered when, exactly, he'd eaten the pie that was previously there.
"Think we've had enough alcohol for one night," Sycamore mumbled. "We should go for a walk," he added, louder.
Lysandre looked fairly unimpressed by that prospect. "At this hour?"
"I need to clear my head," Sycamore insisted, and before Lysandre could protest further he was already standing and reaching for his coat.
Soon they were walking through the cold dark streets in silence. At some point, as they approached the nearby park, Sycamore stumbled and caught Lysandre's arm to steady himself. Once he was walking straight again, he still kept his hand tightly wrapped around the fabric of Lysandre's coat. The taller man tried his best not to pay too close attention to it, vaguely afraid that if his friend realized he'd noticed, he might let go of him.
They were nearing the closest subway station when Sycamore let out a sigh. He pressed his cheek against Lysandre's shoulder, making the man slow down to a stop.
"I want to see the Prism Tower," Sycamore mumbled. A strand of hair had fallen in front of his eyes and he sighed again, blowing on it in an attempt to make it go away.
"Alcohol makes you very demanding, it seems," Lysandre said, amused.
Sycamore frowned, tightening his grip around the other man's arm. The sensation sent exciting ripples to Lysandre's chest, an odd mixture of anxiety and eagerness to see where this was going.
"This has already turned into a date, so we might as well do something romantic," Sycamore said, and this time he moved his head away from Lysandre's arm to look up at him intently.
They stared at each other for a second or two, Lysandre seemingly unable to muster a response, and then Sycamore yawned loudly.
"I think it would be more prudent to bring you somewhere you can rest," Lysandre said before looking away in an attempt both to make sure that Sycamore couldn't see his expression and that he wouldn't be caught yawning through mimicry.
"I'll rest on one of those benches around the tower," Sycamore grumbled. Being drunk oddly seemed to take years off of his face, and his person in general. "Come on."
Lysandre shook his head. "We'll go at another date. Let's just walk some more."
Sycamore snorted, but didn't protest when they began walking again. He was still holding him by the arm.
"You said 'date'."
"I meant–" Lysandre started, but the words died in his mouth when he felt Sycamore pressing himself fully against his side, laughing.
"I know what you meant," he said in-between fits of giggles. "I wouldn't mind if this was a date, though. I think you wouldn't mind, either."
Lysandre decided to put the sudden flush he felt gaining his face on account of the cold weather.
"Well," he said.
Sycamore hummed. A gust of wind threw his hair in his eyes again, but he seemed past caring about it.
"I do... care about you very much, professor," Lysandre managed to say.
Understatement of the year, a voice that sounded very much like the snidest tone of his fake Sycamore said inside his head. He elected to ignore it completely.
"Call me Augustine, don't be silly," Sycamore said, his voice very low and his cheek once again firmly pressed against Lysandre.
"You truly are drunk," Lysandre said. Somehow, he found himself sounding almost fond.
He couldn't be sure, but it seemed to him that Augustine had replied with a barely whispered, "shut up." He said nothing, choosing instead to maneuver so they would start walking back toward the café, smiling all the while.
When they entered, Augustine almost fell over again, but Lysandre swiftly caught him with both arms. Augustine's eyes were large and enticing as he let himself be held for much longer than was necessary. Lysandre quickly straightened him back up and turned away to take off his coat and scarf.
"You have big arms," Augustine said, abandoning his own clothing hastily onto the chair he'd previously occupied.
"I am told my size is fairly impressive," Lysandre replied evenly without looking at him. This was definitely spiraling out of control.
His body stiffened when he felt a hand take hold of his arm once again.
"You're so fucking big," Augustine grumbled, and there was something about the tone of his voice that made the hair on the back of Lysandre's neck stand up. It seemed as if the professor was somehow getting drunker by the minute. He groaned, pressing his forehead against Lysandre's back. "This sucks."
"You should stay here tonight," Lysandre suggested gently. He turned around, cautious of Augustine's body so close to his, and held him firmly by the shoulders when it seemed like he was about to collapse again.
Augustine smiled, his eyes narrowing. "I don't sleep on the first date, you know," he said, sounding oddly lucid about it.
Letting go of him a bit too hurriedly, Lysandre made a face.
"I would never– take advantage of you," he stumbled on the words, realizing that, from a certain point of view, they could almost be considered a lie.
"I know." Augustine's voice betrayed nothing but confident sincerity.
He took a step toward Lysandre, getting even closer, and buried his face in his cravat. Lysandre didn't dare to move.
"I'll get the bedroom ready for you," he said tentatively.
Augustine laughed against him.
"I've thought about this situation a lot, but I never thought I'd be drunk," he said, the words barely decipherable.
"Well," Lysandre said. He let one of his hands fall against Augustine's back.
"Make sure I apologize to you tomorrow," Augustine went on.
Lysandre was beginning to suspect that he was starting to fall asleep, so he delicately pushed him away. Augustine blinked.
"As I said, I'll prepare the room."
Augustine nodded vaguely, and let himself be guided toward a chair he promptly fell on rather than sat. Once he was certain his friend wasn't going anywhere, Lysandre walked out to reach the elevator that led toward his apartment.
It was only once he was inside of his red, chic interior with his pyroar napping on the carpet that the weight of what was going on suddenly dawned on him. Bryony – and probably every other person who'd ever seen them together before – had been right, and when he was certain he'd feel at least some excitement upon discovering this a few hours prior, he suddenly felt nothing but overwhelming sadness.
Bryony had been right, which meant that now that they'd had this – date – he would be breaking Augustine Sycamore's heart on top of everything. A necessary evil, surely – but it was a burden he hadn't had any time to get used to the idea of bearing. There was so much that he wanted; selfishly, of course, once again. He'd let himself be dragged into this while fully aware that it would have nothing but negative consequences, and now he was going to have to break a friendship and a budding romance, on top of everything.
Even if he rejected him now – the result would still be the same. He could picture Dialga, somewhere in their realm of absolute darkness, laughing at him. He'd played himself.
He cleaned up his bedroom, hiding notes and schematics in locked drawers, making sure nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and led the way for Augustine, catching him again before he could fall outside of the elevator.
"Really clumsy," he mumbled apologetically when Lysandre held him as they walked toward the room.
The professor sat on the large bed, eying his surroundings with some curiosity, then looked up at Lysandre.
"Where are you going to sleep?" he asked.
Lysandre blinked. "I suppose I'll have to settle for the couch."
For a second, Augustine seemed disappointed, but then he rubbed his eyes.
"Apologize tomorrow," he repeated, before letting himself fall against the pillow, fast asleep.
Lysandre wasn't exactly surprised to find him so easily brought to such drunkenness: he knew for a fact that, outside of their dinners, the professor didn't exactly have time to consume alcohol very often, especially considering the days and nights he usually spent at the lab. Still, he'd expected the evening to end in a less... spectacular way. He sat on the couch, his proximity waking up his pyroar, who shot him a cautious glance.
"I have no idea what I'm doing," he said to no one in particular. His pyroar yawned sympathetically.
*
The next morning, Lysandre woke up to Augustine standing in front of his couch with a mix of shame and anxiety written on his face. When he realized he'd woken him up, he gasped.
"I'm so sorry!" Augustine said before Lysandre could even think of opening his mouth. He straightened himself up, running a hand through his hair.
"There's no need to apologize," he said with a small smile.
"No, it's–" Augustine took a deep breath, pressing a shaky palm to the side of his face. "I vomited in your toilet."
He paused, surely expecting to be reprimanded, but instead Lysandre merely stared at him, as if he was fascinated by his very existence. The professor let out a strangled laugh.
"Actually, it's a miracle it didn't happen earlier– I love your food, you know, but that was a lot for one dinner, and I'm just not used to eating that much, and with the alcohol–"
Lysandre held up his hand and the rest of his rambling was cut off immediately.
"It's alright," Lysandre said.
"What?" Augustine croaked in disbelief.
"It's fine. Do you feel better?"
Augustine frowned. His hair was all over the place, strands going in every direction with no rhyme or reason, and against the muted morning light coming through the gaps in his blinds, Lysandre found him agonizingly beautiful.
"Yeah, I do feel better, thanks," Augustine enunciated carefully. This put an amused smile on his friend's face, and Lysandre gestured for him to join him on the couch.
They sat very close to each other, shoulders brushing lightly. Lysandre was struck by the normalcy of it all – in that very moment, he was sitting next to this man who was alive and well, in a world that he hadn't half-destroyed, at a time when his misdeeds hadn't even exactly happened. This was the peak, he realized. The highest point before he would bring them both down and fix everything.
On impulse, he threw his arm around Augustine and brought him close, burying his face in his hair. He closed his eyes and ordered himself not to cry.
"Is everything fine?" Augustine's voice asked, but his body offered no resistance, relaxed against his. "You're starting to worry me a little."
"I'm happy," Lysandre whispered close to his ear. Augustine's shiver was shared through their proximity.
He was warm and it felt so good. Deep in that haze, Lysandre vaguely wondered how he could have survived without this for so long. Not even romantic love, specifically – he recalled Bryony's smile, Xerosic's nervous habits, the vibe given off by a crowd enjoying a nice meal all together almost as one big family and felt the same, the same warmth and the same calm sense of belonging. Not in the grand scheme of things, not in the tales written down in history, no – but in other people's hearts. The knowledge that you could trust others, that you could depend on them. Lysandre let out a laugh, muffled by hair. He was starting to sound like a drunk poet blinded by naivety. Perhaps he would do well not to get too carried away.
Instead, he focused on more concrete things: the hard planes of Augustine's body pressed against his, the smell of his hair tickling his nose. The fast pace of his heartbeat he could feel directly, unless it was his own heart – when so close to someone else, it could be difficult to tell.
Augustine let out a contented sigh.
"This is nice," he said, sounding almost drunk again, suddenly. "I like this new, weird Lysandre who cooks me good food and brings me home for hugs."
Lysandre laughed again. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so elated. The vibrations of Augustine's laughter against him were exhilarating.
"This is new to me as well," he admitted quietly.
"Yeah," Augustine said as if he knew. Perhaps he did; for once Lysandre decided not to linger too long on his perceived incompetence.
Instead, he opened his eyes and leaned his face toward Augustine's, and touched the soft skin of his neck. Augustine hummed and did not pull away.
They were kissing before Lysandre could register it was happening. Augustine's tongue tasted like mouthwash; Lysandre thought that he'd probably rinsed his mouth after vomiting in the bathroom. Then he didn't really think of anything at all. Augustine spread his fingers against Lysandre's chest, his palms flat, pushing to get even closer. They almost tumbled over and fell off the couch before breaking away from each other. Lysandre's pyroar was observing them from afar, his eyes glinting.
"Ah, sorry," Augustine mumbled. He still sounded either drunk or half-asleep.
Lysandre buried his face in his neck and hugged him close, his arms firm and tight around him. "Stop apologizing."
He felt Augustine's hands now gripping him by the shoulders, as if afraid that he might let go.
"This is just– a lot," Augustine groaned, "to take in."
"Hmm," was all Lysandre had to say in reply. "Do you really think my arms are 'fucking' big?"
Augustine laughed, shaking in his embrace. "Everything about you is big. Come on. Everyone is checking you out all the time."
"Let's not exaggerate."
"I mean it, come on." Augustine shifted away from him to deliver his most stern look. "You look like you could carry me twice."
Lysandre suppressed a smile. "Alright."
This didn't seem to be the reaction Augustine had meant to provoke, judging by the eyebrow he was now crooking at him, but Lysandre had decided they'd had enough strong emotions for one morning.
"I'll bring apple pie for our breakfast," Lysandre went on, finally fully detaching himself from the other man so he could rise from the couch. Augustine let out a sigh of defeat and watched him leave the room with narrowed eyes and a flushed face.
They'd left everything in the café in Lysandre's haste to bring his friend to bed, and so he had to take the elevator back to gather plates and leftovers. He tidied up the kitchen quickly, thinking about everything that was happening at once. Cruelly, he was gathering the strength to do what he needed to do in these moments – he couldn't stall much further. He would reminisce on the taste of Augustine Sycamore's lips to steady himself as he walked toward what would probably be the end of him, and everything would be fine.
It was so odd, to feel so relaxed, so odd, to sit at his kitchen table and eat apple pie with Augustine and his crumpled clothes and his reddened cheeks and his hair all over the place. They didn't really discuss what had happened, even when Augustine suddenly realized he needed to get to the lab fast and Lysandre had to excuse himself because the café had to reopen in time for lunch. They merely exchanged knowing glances and, before leaving, Augustine took Lysandre's hand in his and gave it one firm squeeze; it could have passed for a handshake, but they both knew better. Lysandre was still smiling when his first employees began to arrive.
"Good evening, huh," Bryony said, and then, visibly amazed by her own boldness, winked at him.
Lysandre stared at her in disbelief for a second before clearing his throat. "It went well."
"Did the candles help?" So it had been her. Her excitement was communicative.
"A lot," Lysandre replied, deadpan. It made her laugh, and the sound brightened the whole room.
*
They had more dates, but never truly as intense. Augustine was respectful of the distance Lysandre still kept between them at times, and Lysandre was fine with holding his hand and kissing him sometimes.
Days were passing by, turning into weeks which turned into months. AZ had been spotted a few times, recruits reported, but never caught. Xerosic was telling him all kinds of things he already knew about the machine, regarding data, regarding the timeline of what they had planned. Lysandre always listened, even asking questions when he already knew the answers.
On a rainy autumn day, Augustine looked at him over a cup of hot coffee and told him Grace Primrose was moving the week after. Truthfully, he'd almost forgotten; they hadn't discussed the subject much since then, outside of Augustine taking any occasion to brag about the children who were still occasionally visiting. Lysandre had merely seen them in passing: there wasn't much time left for courtesy visits anymore.
Everything was coming together.
"I was thinking about giving three of them a pokémon," Augustine said after taking a long sip of his coffee. "Grace's son and Serena are the obvious choices, but..."
"Serena is the daughter of those battlers?" Lysandre held his face in his palm, trying to focus on the conversation instead of how badly he wanted to kiss him. They weren't alone, and it was inappropriate.
"Yeah, she's an interesting child," Augustine replied, his smile reaching up to his eyes to make them shine in the artificial light. "I'm sure having to look after her new neighbor will do her some good."
An interesting child, Lysandre thought. He'd been an interesting child as well, too busy studying the world and the pokémons that inhabited it to pay too much attention to the humans. If she was anything like him, then surely friends could only help her grow up better than he did.
"You look really concerned," Augustine said, taking him out of his memories. "Are you having second thoughts?"
The hidden meaning, as unintentional as it was, made Lysandre frown.
"I have no doubt you will do well, still," Lysandre said, and to further prove it he reached across the table with his free hand and touched the back of Augustine's lightly.
Augustine took his hand in his and his smile was everything a man needed to see to know he had to save the world.
Or, as a matter of fact, not to be the one the world needed saving from.
*
Serena was indeed an interesting child. She held herself tight, her expression always serious, the frown on her face always slightly there. Oddly, she reminded him of Malva, who at this time was constantly unavailable and always considered his offers to meet her sternly, pointing out she was awfully busy at the Elite Four and hanging up before he could ask her how everything was going.
The Primrose son, though – Calem, as it turned out – was inhabited mostly by an eagerness to learn new things that was plainly written on his face. He found their pair charming; at the back of his mind, he thought that they were akin to another pair, but the thought made him somewhat embarrassed.
There were three more children, the ones who used to visit often. He recalled them vaguely: the girl who always seemed excited about something, the boy who told anyone who would listen about his passion for dancing, the other boy with the vibrant orange hair who always looked at the professor with something that was on the fringe of adoration. They were good people, he was sure. He wished he could have more time to get to know them.
He wished he could have more time to get to know Diantha, who was tense around him and whom he decided to antagonize for reasons he wasn't entirely set on. Maybe it was the memory of her death – the image of her bloated corpse, Malva crying in front of him for the first time in so long. She was beautiful, and it was better to push her away, to brag and rant and talk about the worst of what he'd meant to do, back when he still believed it was the right thing.
Her eyes were cold and dark when he left, convinced this was for the best. Maybe later he could apologize – maybe not. He thought about Augustine looking at him with those same eyes and faltered.
Celosia was waiting for him when he returned to his café to check on their operations, her back very straight and her brow furrowed.
"Boss," she said quickly, executing the ridiculous salute they'd come up with at some point. He nodded at her.
"Celosia. What is it?"
She pressed a finger to the side of her visor and considered something for a few seconds before she spoke. "We believe we should be able to catch the giant very soon. It seems his perimeter is progressively getting smaller."
Lysandre nodded again, wondering what this could possibly mean. Could AZ sense they were setting up the machine again? If so, why hadn't he done something about it the last time they'd unearthed it?"
"About Yveltal... we've finally pinpointed their position. We have several teams working toward incapacitating them and bringing them to Geosenge. It's a matter of weeks, if not days."
She pressed her finger against her visor again and smiled. Slightly unnerved, Lysandre smiled back.
"Very good. I will supervise the last steps. I'll be at Geosenge this afternoon."
"Of course, boss. We'll see you then."
She saluted again as he left her to walk to the secret entrance that led to his second elevator. He wondered whether she found the salute as ludicrous as he did. What a way to stroke one's ego.
Two weeks later, Yveltal was nesting inside the machine, and Lysandre had kept a close eye on the professor's students' progress. He still visited him sometimes, but simply seeing Augustine smile at him was starting to make him feel a bit sick.
He was sticking to his plans, but sometimes he wished those plans involved leaving the country with Augustine and pretending nothing between them had ever been built on a lie or several.
*
The kids – the chosen ones – were getting in his way, and it was a delight. Whenever the girls came to report on their failings, all pained apologies and anxious body language, he had to try hard not to smile a little. He had to get mad – he had to be angry, or disappointed, but always confident that nothing would stand in their way. They'd captured a god, after all – a god hiding inside a cocoon in an almost hibernating state, but a god nonetheless. Whenever he caught a glimpse of Yveltal's egg inside the machine, he always felt empty and defeated. He hoped the children would be able to rescue them so that no more harm could come to them.
On a cloudy afternoon, Augustine invited him to meet the children properly. Lysandre wondered whether Diantha had said anything about him recently, but neither of them mentioned it.
For the children's sake, he put on his best show; in fairness, they were an easily impressed audience. He listened to Augustine's praise and did his best to bear the warm, proud look in his eyes whenever he gave his compliments. Serena was not particularly swayed, her arms crossed in front of her ever-so-straight form, but Calem's eyes lit up expectantly upon being told about legends and royalty. Lysandre had to offer him a parting gift: it seemed unfair to not give him something to repent for all his acting and pretense. That evening, Augustine invited him out for dinner and gave him even more praise. Lysandre let himself be kissed in an empty street as they were walking back to his café.
He found himself taking a strange satisfaction in calling up Augustine's students and talking to them. The professor had been a bit too eager to give him their numbers, if he had to be honest, but it was an efficient way to keep an eye on them. They both knew he could have gotten the numbers anyway; telling them he'd been put in contact with them through Augustine just seemed more natural. The excitable girl, Shauna, always was the one who was the most willing to discuss the most egregious things with him, telling him all about her father and her braixen and how funny it was to feed her sticks and watch her breathe out little puffs of smoke. They talked at length about poképuff recipes and when she suggested that they should meet to bake together, Lysandre found it most unfortunate to have to decline.
Was the world always so bright? Even in his younger years, when he was more hopeful, he found that he'd always considered everything that wasn't him with a detached kind of contempt. Kalos was beautiful and its people were wonderful but he, most importantly, was the one who was here to make everything even better. He was going to fix everything, even if there was nothing to fix. Now everything seemed oddly, disarmingly better as if he'd suddenly woken up from a long nightmare filled with distress and distrust. He looked back on his doubts about how humans could thrive on fewer resources without resorting to self-destruction and found them fueled by contempt, and a refusal to give others the benefit of the doubt. If they could not agree with his vision, then they were worthless humans, unless they could somehow prove themselves to him – but nothing was ever enough. Every proof could be disregarded. It was easier to be right than it was to admit one's own mistakes.
He wondered whether this AZ would be proud of him for succeeding where he'd failed. He doubted he would care.
They found him something like a month and a half later. Lysandre couldn't help but think he'd let himself be caught: perhaps he'd somehow sensed that they'd started the machine back up and wanted to avoid any more damage being done.
That was it, then. The last step before he could finally enact his plan.
When he faced AZ, he tried his best not to show he already knew him. He wanted to play dumb so that there'd be no way for him to appear to be involved. He didn't want to implicate him.
Secretly, he'd hoped that this AZ would retain the memory of having met him, of having shared his pathetic history. The king's face remained grim and dark, his eyes barely seeming to register anything. Lysandre smiled to himself, at his own naivety.
That was it, then.
*
Even though he couldn't see her face behind the visor, Lysandre could tell that Mable was avoiding his eyes. He'd called her to his office in the final hours because he couldn't stand to ask Bryony. It was selfish, but he was past the point of caring about these things. She wrung her hands together behind her back where she thought he couldn't see and awaited his orders.
"I need you to hold on to something for me," he said, taking the elevator key out of his pocket.
She stared at it as if it was the key they'd taken from AZ days prior, to unlock the machine. "Why?"
He didn't expect her to ask questions. His grip on the key tightened, betraying his annoyance despite his efforts.
"If something were to happen, I trust you to take care of this place," he said, slowly, enunciating each word carefully to try and take the edge off them. Mable frowned.
"Are you worried?"
"Mable," he snapped, making her flinch. She held her face down and nodded.
Her fingers brushed against his when she finally moved to take the key. She recoiled immediately, a dark flush climbing up her face. In this instant, Lysandre felt pity for her, for her affection toward him, and disgust for himself, who was taking advantage of her one last time. She slipped the key in her pocket, her lips tightly pressed together as if she was fighting back the urge to say something, ask more questions, anger him further.
He held up his hand and slowly placed it on one of her shoulder pads. She straightened her back.
"I apologize for my tense demeanor," he said, but this only seemed to fluster her further.
"You don't have to– I shouldn't talk back to you. I'm nervous," she admitted, her mouth trembling into a slight, embarrassed smile. "We're so close."
Lysandre nodded. He missed being able to see her eyes.
"There's something else you have to do for me. Please tell the girls that you all need to stay here when the weapon launches..." He could see her stir, begin to shake her head, so he repeated himself, raising his voice, "You need to stay here. I need you to stay here, in case something goes wrong."
"Why do you–" she started, stopped herself, bit her lip, and started again, "why are you so convinced something will go wrong?"
"Nothing will go wrong," Lysandre heard himself lie, smiling confidently as he did. "But if something were to happen, I want you girls to be safe above everyone else."
His words had the intended effect; Mable looked down again, at her feet, her face scrunched-up as if she was about to cry.
"Alright," she said, her voice strained, "boss."
Feeling nothing but contempt for himself, Lysandre patted her on the shoulder and sent her on her way. This was for the best, of course, and in a few days perhaps Mable would recall this encounter with a kind of resigned relief at the thought that this decision had saved her and her colleagues from a lot of grief; but for now it just made him feel sick, sick of all the lies he was leaving behind and all the lies he had to say still.
He took out his holo-caster.
*
"I'm sorry, but this is adieu to you all," his voice said, loud and clear, but frighteningly flat. He'd recorded the message in advance, in case his nerves got the best of him.
There had been – a pull, to go and visit Augustine one last time, before everything between them would be destroyed beyond repair, but he repressed it. How egotistic. He couldn't let himself hurt him further in an attempt to appease his own torment. As such, it had been a week since they'd last seen each other when Augustine received the message. Lysandre tried not to think about that.
He'd smashed his own holo-caster to pieces, in case anyone tried to call him, and because the mindless act of violence soothed his rapid heart rate and his blooming headache. He had work to do.
The work in question proved to come much faster than he'd expected. He exited his elevator only to be met with Serena and Calem's accusing glares.
He thought about Shauna. Another relationship he'd indulged in that would only serve to wreak more havoc. He tried to remember what Bryony had said, in another world, about him being a good man, but the phrase rang hollow to his ears.
Calem was a remarkable battler, of course. It didn't matter that Lysandre was holding back, that he was acting: they weren't. They were sincere, in their hurt, and their words, and he was lying still even as they criticized him for being a liar. He was lying for their sake – but at that point, even if he'd told the truth, they wouldn't have believed him anyway.
They were children, teenagers – and Lysandre had been a teenager once, hiding his face in his mother's dresses, catching glances of other children his age when he was walking down the market with one of the butlers, so they could buy food for his magikarp. He'd been dramatic and eager and passionate – and he still was. Sometimes, those were things you couldn't outgrow. He hoped they wouldn't, either.
He went down to where they'd locked down AZ and listened to the sound of his expensive shoes as they hit the cold stone floor. The former king was standing in his cell. There was no life left in him; he merely stared at the ground. Lysandre remembered that feeling all too well. It was a cold, painful sensation in the pit of his stomach. He hated it. It reminded him of Sycamore's corpse pressing his fingers against the back of his neck. A cold chill. A promise.
The children came down to listen to the king's story. Lysandre, of course, knew it by heart, had heard it from the man himself, and from dusty old books he'd found in his father's library.
When he went back up the elevator, he was met with his scientists – bar Xerosic – standing all together in protest against his demand for them to leave, to not go to Geosenge, to wait and stay put and await further orders. They wanted to be there when the machine would bloom, they wanted to witness their victory. He wanted to tell them to run away, to hide, to forgive him for putting them in that situation.
Instead, he put on his best smile and told them he needed them to be out in the world in case something went wrong. They would celebrate later. Aliana stared at the ground, tugging at Mable's sleeve. The blue-haired girl seemed on the verge of saying something, her jaw set tight, but once again she gave up and kept quiet. When she left, Aliana still holding on to her arm, her footsteps rang heavy and loud against the steel tiles.
Bryony took off her visor and immediately, Lysandre had to look away – it was too much, but he deserved this.
"Boss," she said, in the tone she'd used to say his proper name, back then. "Is everything alright?"
At her side, Celosia bristled with worry, but she said nothing. She clenched her fists and said nothing. A well-tuned soldier. She'd died because of it, once.
"Of course," he said, still smiling. "This is our moment. Please, do not fret."
She frowned, glanced at Celosia, her anxious gait, and then back at Lysandre. She nodded.
"We'll talk to you later, then."
He hoped they would never talk to each other again. He hoped she and Celosia would grow old together and be happy, maybe laugh a little when reminiscing about the time they followed some old fool who wanted to change the world through annihilation. He watched them leave and then he rode the elevator further down, to join his head scientist in the lower basement.
Xerosic was so ecstatic about their functional doomsday device. He'd loved working on it, saving it from centuries of rust and rot hidden away in the dirt. He'd loved researching the archives for stories and legends and instructions on how to make it work perfectly.
Lysandre watched him for a long time.
In the dramatic play they were enacting, Xerosic was yet another unknowing actor; still, Lysandre knew he would play his role perfectly, aggravating the children as soon as Lysandre left, proclaiming all kinds of terrible things that they both believed in, once. Lysandre only stayed long enough to set the scene – the director role, he found, suited him better, but also felt more cowardly. It only served to enhance the bitterness weighing on his stomach.
He left his café and the children behind to argue and fight and solve a pointless riddle and then, choosing to let himself enjoy one last thing, sent out his gyarados so he could ride him through the kalosian skies, all the way to Geosenge and its stones standing proud against the test of time.
His grunts watched him with awe as he came back down. He hated their admiration, their blind faith. He barely looked at them. The end was near and he didn't want to be distracted.
They were soon all too busy staring with no less adoration – and horror, though maybe this was only how Lysandre was feeling – at the weapon finally blooming in front of their eyes, toppling them over as the earth started to shake beneath their feet. At that moment, watching the trees buckle and the houses cling desperately to their foundations, holding onto his unfazed gyarados for support, Lysandre couldn't help but think that making Xerosic witness this through a screen was somewhat of a shame. It seemed like a waste that the one person who would have enjoyed this the most couldn't be present as it was happening. At least he'd recorded it, making sure to immortalize their triumph.
Triumph. As he watched the grim flower that had emerged from the soil, Lysandre was reminded of the day he'd won, so long ago. Perhaps, if he took a deep breath, he would again smell the overpowering stench of smoke and death.
Yet, when he took his first step toward the entrance of their headquarters, all he could smell was the cold autumn air.
His lower-ranking scientists were fussing, running around the room overlooking the machine with what seemed to be a mix of excitement and nervosity. It made him nervous as well, having to wait for the next step of this pantomime in the middle of all of these pointless displays. Watching the cocoon down below, he listened to their jabber, their talks of using the energy from the standing stones on the route they'd closed off, and felt the tight grip of regret grasping at his heart. He did not raise his voice, although he wanted to, even when a grunt approached him sheepishly to inform him that "children were on their way."
"I know," he wanted to snap back, more to soothe his nerves than anything else, but he repressed the urge and nodded instead.
When the children arrived, still so angry, so confused, so delightfully righteous, Serena with her hair falling into her eyes and Calem with his glasses pulled down onto his face as if to shield him, Lysandre welcomed them with open arms.
Drawing from his desire to see his whole plan through and ensure that he would be its only real victim, he did not falter, even from hearing the hurt and confusion in Serena's voice as he delivered a speech he'd rehearsed long ago. The conviction they could hear in his words, born from a sincerity that he still felt even as he was sabotaging his own efforts, only seemed to further destroy the faith of the children who'd looked up to him and Sycamore for guidance on how to better the world.
As he'd expected, their strength and bonds with their pokémons had only increased out of their burning desire to stop him. When Calem defeated his gyarados, his face distorted into a grimace of anguish and anger, it was all Lysandre could do to stop himself from apologizing.
He let them go.
Shauna's arrival took him by surprise: her eyes full of tears, her small hands clenched into tight fists, demanding answers for what was going on. He didn't want to fight her, he realized, but he couldn't stop her from going after them. She didn't stay long enough for him to improvise another speech, her disappointment already cemented in the way she looked at him as if he was another person, a man so far removed from the one she'd exchanged pleasantries and recipes with that she couldn't even fathom they could have ever been one and the same. He looked away when she left, ignoring the embarrassed gazes of his recruits.
Wasn't that his just deserts, he thought. His only comfort was that, if everything went as he'd planned, he would never have to see Augustine look at him in that way.
In the months prior, he'd spent many of their less romantic afternoons discussing mega-evolution with Augustine. The ring he wore on his finger, circled around the key-stone he'd been gifted, had always been the professor's idea. The conversations he'd had in the evenings with Xerosic were not much different, though they lacked the brand of tension he and Augustine had carefully cultivated. Xerosic was a man of science above all, too busy peering inside machines and scribbling down notes about his research to think about anything else.
Still, Lysandre had cherished these meetings, finding in them a connection to the Xerosic who would never exist: the shadow of his malamar lingering at their side, the way he fidgeted with his goggles when he was nervous or eager or trying to focus, even the fact that, while he seemed to find Lysandre's interest peculiar, he tolerated it in a way that was unlike him. It made Lysandre think of the day they'd met, years ago, when he'd started perusing the region for the most brilliant minds he could find.
They'd worked on a project together. It was Xerosic's idea – and so it made sense that it was Xerosic that he met up with next.
The scientist's exhilaration was oddly communicative. For a second, as he watched him carefully unpack the device, Lysandre could almost forget that this was all for nothing except their own destruction.
"I can't wait to see it in action," Xerosic said in one single breath, moving to help him connect the device to his back quickly. The metal sat uncomfortably against his shoulder blades, even with the fabric underneath, its weight pulling at him like a physical manifestation of the burden he was carrying.
"You shouldn't stay," Lysandre said. The words rang hollow even to his own ears.
"No way, boss," Xerosic retorted with a grin. He picked up one of the cords and connected it to the back of the device. "We've been looking forward to this for so long!"
"Then," Lysandre said, taking hold of Xerosic's arm as he went to grab another cord, "please stay here. I'd rather you watch from this room."
Xerosic frowned.
"If that's where you think you'll need me."
With a short nod, Lysandre let go of his arm. The head scientist connected the rest of the cords in silence, his brow furrowed. Though it couldn't have taken more than a couple of minutes, it felt as if an eternity had passed once he was done and ready to activate the device.
"If something were to happen," Lysandre started, but Xerosic cut him off immediately.
"Nothing can go wrong at this point, we've tested everything so many times." He took hold of his goggles and moved them up by a millimeter, peering at him behind the lens. "Are you... alright?"
The hesitation in his voice, as if he was afraid that his uncharacteristic compassion would be reprimanded, made Lysandre smile despite himself. This only seemed to worry Xerosic further.
"I'm fine," Lysandre said and found that he was. An eerie calmness had settled in his heart, soothing his spirit as he prepared for his final moments. "Please promise me. Xerosic."
"Boss," Xerosic relented with a sigh.
"If something happens, I'll be counting on you to evacuate everyone. Will you do that for me... for us?"
Xerosic pressed his lips together into a line seemingly thinner than Lysandre had ever witnessed. "Of course," he said.
"Thank you." Lysandre smiled at him, beaming with a renewed energy he didn't know he could still summon from within himself.
Before they could say anything else, a booming sound resonated throughout the building. Hurrying back toward the next room, where the glass panel stood to let them see what was going down below, they could only watch as Yveltal spread their wings and let out a powerful screech.
"The children," a scientist yelled somewhere to Lysandre's left, "they woke the beast up!"
There was no denying that Yveltal was indeed a beast, towering above the machine as if it was nothing more than an inconvenience. The span of their wings was so large that it was a wonder the room could even contain them. Lysandre was so captivated that he didn't realize Xerosic had activated the device on his back until he could feel the appendages rise around him, knocking over a grunt who was standing too close.
"Go!" Xerosic said, much more authoritatively than he'd ever heard him speak to him before – but Lysandre was already leaving.
When he put on the visor, the numbers that were blinking in and out took him by surprise. It seemed the children had indeed managed to wake the legendary up before much of its power could be absorbed. This was the plan, of course; yet he hadn't expected it to work quite as perfectly.
He wasted no time reassuring the panicked recruits he ran into as he travelled down toward the children, who he was sure were battling fiercely to contain Yveltal in that moment. He gestured to them to evacuate and didn't stay long enough to see whether they listened or not. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard and fast it was beginning to hurt. He'd experienced this feeling before, but never so positively, never with the conviction that he was running toward the better ending to this story.
When he finally arrived, the room was quiet once more. The children had tamed the beast. They turned toward him with angry, dejected looks in their eyes when he called out to them.
This – this was the last step. The last scene of the last act of this terrible play.
He played it out mechanically, as if in a dream, the gestures and the words coming to him as if he was enacting a part he'd rehearsed over and over. When Shauna looked at him with tears and scorn in her eyes to lecture him about not giving up, when Serena confronted him about his foolishness and unwillingness to step down and acknowledge defeat, when Calem, seemingly rendered speechless by the weight of all that they'd had to process in a few hours, coldly nodded to accept his last challenge to battle... all of it felt like it was happening somewhere else, to someone else he was gleefully watching as they sabotaged themself.
His only moment of fleeting weakness happened as his gyarados mega-evolved: the sudden rush of their bond culminating into a triumphant metamorphosis gave his pokémon a split second to access his heart and mind and see what was in it. Lysandre knew that his companions would outlive him if everything went as expected – surely they'd dig out whatever remains would be left, and he had faith that pokéballs were strong enough to sustain the damage from the blast. His gyarados was unimpressed with that outcome.
That knowledge fueled the pokémon's desire to be victorious.
It did not let them become the victors.
A sort of bleak understanding in Calem's eyes, barely visible from behind the dark shades, brought Lysandre over the edge of his tragic comedy.
His final thought, when the last remnant of energy from the machine fell back into itself, ravaging everything, was that he hoped Xerosic would fulfill his promise.
Then he fell back into the darkness once more.
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: In the aftermath of victory, Lysandre discovers that triumph without peril indeed brings no glory. In more ways than one.
Notes: This is the fic, the one I started early on in the fandom, abandoned a year later, and then finished EIGHT YEARS after posting the first chapter. It's also the starting point for a whole series. Warning for Major Character Death (although it doesn't last) and heavy angst, especially in the early chapters. This is a story about Lysandre succeeding in his plans and then having a really bad time about it. Title is from Shakespeare's King Lear.
AO3 Link: Here.
SERIES NAVIGATION
So Long as We Can Say (starting point)
The Pangs of Disprized Love / And With Your Hands Your Hearts / Wisely and Slow (main story)
That Give Delight and Hurt (Not) / Daggers in Men's Smiles (explicit spin-offs)
CHAPTERS NAVIGATION
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Epilogue
"Lysandre? Are you alright?"
The sound of that voice made his body jerk and his eyes open. For a second that lasted much too long he didn't understand where he was; expected to be met with a dead man and a world half in ruins.
Instead, he was sitting in his café, the air warm and pleasant like the most charming of kalosian summers. A few people were sitting at the nearby tables, chatting happily, finishing up their meals. It was dark outside – nearing nightfall, it seemed.
Lysandre blinked.
At the other end of the table he was sitting at, Augustine Sycamore stared at him with concern. "Really, Lysandre, is everything fine? You look very pale."
In his mind, Lysandre felt compelled to curse out Dialga for sending him back at that exact moment – but he couldn't exactly complain. He had gotten what he wanted, in the end.
Holding on to that thought, he smiled. Something about it must have been surprising because Sycamore looked troubled.
"My apologies, I am exhausted," Lysandre said much more calmly than he'd expected. "I do believe I had begun to doze off– what were we discussing, exactly?"
He was doing his best to remember when he was, exactly, but his memory had become busy with images of death and despair, of broken-down houses and corpses covering the streets, of Bryony's anxiety and Malva's tears. Remembering his life before all of this was proving difficult.
The professor smiled, and he definitely looked fond. Maybe not as much as Bryony had been before they had to part, but close. Lysandre found the realization both exhilarating and terrifying. Had she been right? Could he have really been that blind?
"We were discussing my time as a student under Professor Rowan, I can understand that this could bore you." Sycamore laughed and took a sip of his wine. Lysandre felt suddenly mortified that he could have come off as uninterested in what the other man was recounting.
"Not at all," he said, and Sycamore watched him talk from behind his wine glass. "You're always a delight to listen to."
That was definitely too much. He wasn't quite himself – he literally wasn't the person he was when they'd originally had that conversation. Sycamore looked away as he put his glass down a bit too quickly – it hit his empty plate and made an unpleasant sound. His face was – to Lysandre's absolute terror – slightly red.
It had to be the wine.
Of course it was the wine.
Lysandre blinked again. Was he always practicing denial that vigorously? He was starting to feel somewhat pathetic.
"Um," Sycamore mumbled, playing with his rolled-up sleeve as if to distract himself from the situation, "thank you."
It occurred to Lysandre that he was actually here to fix what he'd done, and not to flirt with Augustine Sycamore. The memory of his corpse crossed his mind and made him pale further. He drank what was left in his own glass in one go.
What was it that he'd done to ensure everything would go well for him, last time? He'd always made sure not to be too obvious about his plans, although he'd never hidden his ideals. The professor had always seemed reluctant to disagree with him directly, and he'd always tried to stay out of his business. He thought back to what they'd apparently been discussing earlier – Sycamore's apprenticeship under Rowan. Could he remember Sycamore ever mentioning wanting to teach? Perhaps, if he had a stronger support system–
"Actually, since we're talking about your time as a student," Lysandre said as he put his glass down. Sycamore looked at him a bit tentatively, but he seemed calmer. "Have you ever thought about sharing your knowledge with the young yourself?"
Sycamore looked pleased by the inquiry, although maybe embarrassed as well.
"Well, I did teach you for a while," he replied, and it felt as if he was almost– teasing him?
There was an entirely new spectrum of behaviors he was reading, and an entirely new set of emotions he was feeling as a result. It was admittedly overwhelming.
"I wouldn't exactly call myself young by any stretch," Lysandre said, letting his mouth curl into a smile.
That made the professor laugh again, loud and warm, and the sound made Lysandre's whole body relax into his chair.
"I feel kind of insulted, considering our age difference," Sycamore retorted. He didn't sound insulted at all.
"I was referring to the age range you were in when you were following Professor Rowan's guidance."
"I know." The tone was definitely teasing now. Lysandre picked up the wine bottle and proceeded to pour them more wine to keep his hands busy and hide his nervosity. "But, to answer your question, I don't know... I don't think I'd really be qualified for it. I'm already a handful for my assistants."
Lysandre frowned at that, deep in thought once again. He tried to recall the name of Sycamore's two assistants but could only remember the corpse of the woman, cold and lifeless at his feet. He grimaced and decided to drink more wine.
"You shouldn't dismiss your abilities like this," he said, glass in hand. "You're a very skilled teacher."
Sycamore's face was getting red again and Lysandre felt a thrill at the realization that he was the one provoking such strong reactions. Still, he tried to tell himself that they were simply getting drunk – but there was no mistaking the glances the professor was giving him.
Arceus – Dialga? –, he'd been such a misguided fool.
"So many compliments, tonight," Sycamore said with a slight smile. "Are you planning something? Trying to get in my good graces?"
It was a joke, of course – more teasing, flirting perhaps – but Lysandre froze, avoiding the other man's eyes. Sycamore's happy expression faltered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply–"
"It's alright," Lysandre shook his head, regaining his composure as promptly as he could manage. "I think I've underestimated my own fatigue."
He lifted his glass to his lips once more before changing his mind and putting it back down. No sense in actually getting himself drunk, especially in this situation. Sycamore had taken on a worried expression once again, frowning a little.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked. Lysandre took a look around the café. Clients were becoming more scarce. His employees were busy cleaning up the last remaining tables.
"Not at all," he said and gave his friend a tired smile. "Truly, professor, I was sincere. You would do wonders with your own pupils."
Sycamore looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear clumsily, but from the way his smile widened Lysandre could tell he was pleased.
"I'll be sure to consider it."
They spoke for a little while longer, and Lysandre found himself reluctant to let him go. Worse, he felt compelled to touch him, to take his hands in his and make sure they were warm and alive. At some point, while Sycamore was recounting a time he'd gotten in trouble with another apprentice, Lysandre stopped listening and only focused on staring at his moving lips and the way he wet them from time to time as he was pausing to take a breath. He was sure the professor had noticed, but neither of them could will themselves to bring it up. Instead, Sycamore smiled at him in a way that he could only describe as smug.
His employees were long gone, and his body was begging for a chance to lie down when Lysandre finally stood to say goodbye to his friend. They would see each other the next day, of course – he would make sure of that.
When Sycamore neared the door, Lysandre took him by the arm before he could stop himself, and gaped at him when he realized what he'd done. Sycamore chuckled.
"You really need to get some rest," he said, and there was undoubtedly tenderness in his voice. Lysandre let go of his arm.
"Don't forget," he said as firmly as he could. "The pupils."
Sycamore held his arm and smiled at him.
"Don't worry about it. Bonne nuit, Lysandre."
Lysandre's reply was a faint mumble, and by the time the bell at the door was signifying someone had left he was still standing at the exact same spot. He felt dizzy but relieved. It was only as he crossed the threshold to the elevator, once he was done tidying up what they had left, that he was hit by the realization that his pokémons were still alive.
When he unlocked the door to his apartment to be greeted by the intense stare of his pyroar, he felt his heart leap in his chest. The sensation was so intense that he almost thought it would bring him to tears; instead, he knelt down, not even bothering to close the door, and embraced the scorching mane of his long-time companion. He held him until the side of his face began to hurt. He'd almost forgotten this: the sharp burning pain on contact with that fiery hair, the fur in-between his fingers, the calm rhythm of a pokémon's breathing. His pyroar seemed merely mildly puzzled, staring back at him with a kind of serene understanding.
Lysandre opened his mouth to say something, anything to express the relief he felt at that moment but found that he couldn't. Instead, he beckoned the pokémon to follow him on an elevator ride toward one of the basements.
The soft blue glow of the gigantic aquarium immediately soothed his spirits. He'd had it installed not long after securing the building for his café – among other things – just so his gyarados could remain in an environment that would suit him outside of the comfort of his pokéball. The glass was warm under the palm of his hand. His pyroar sat next to him, watching the light shimmer through the water.
"I'm sorry," Lysandre whispered. His gyarados emerged slowly out of the darkness, shiny blue scales and sharp red eyes. He made no sound, instead bumping the top of his head against the glass, where Lysandre's hand was. "I missed you too."
He felt exhausted, suddenly, as if everything was catching up to him at once. Still, he stood in front of the aquarium until his pyroar nudged at his knee to urge him to get some rest. That night, he slept a dreamless sleep, and in the morning almost wondered whether it could be possible that everything that had happened before this day had been a fever dream.
*
The machine was exactly as he remembered it: tall and cold, dark and menacing. It filled the whole room and towered over everything else.
Lysandre had loved it, back then: loved the power, the grandeur, the feeling of being so close to getting what he wanted, what he deserved. He should have been ashamed of it but at the time he'd let himself enjoy it, considered it a fair prize for carrying on his duty. He could be proud of this, he thought. He could savor this feeling.
He remembered the sad, smoldering carcass that was left after the fact, the bits and pieces of metal on the floor, the cracks on the ceiling, the sour smell of smoke in the air. There had been nothing to be proud of, then.
When Xerosic entered the room, he was still staring at the machine. It was empty – a small relief.
"Boss," Xerosic said, and hearing his voice, his usual voice – not the sad, defeated tone or the hysterics – made something tug in Lysandre's chest. He turned around to look at him and smiled.
"Xerosic. You are right on time."
"Of course," the pale man said. He seemed perplexed by the way Lysandre was acting; maybe it was to be expected. "You said you thought about our plans regarding the device?"
"Yes," Lysandre replied, and he turned his head back to look at it once more. "I believe Yveltal should suffice to activate it. Please do not try to force it to run, I fear it might damage it."
Xerosic's mouth curved downward in a very unpleasant manner. "But– boss, you said–"
"I've changed my mind," Lysandre said, glancing at him. His tone didn't allow for discussion. Xerosic let his head fall and did his best to hide his disappointment.
"In that case, we need to make sure we secure the artifact needed to trigger the blast," he said with only a note of bitterness in his voice.
Lysandre nodded.
"I will give the order."
He gave the machine one last look and walked away, toward Xerosic. The scientist seemingly expected him to be marching toward the exit, and as such when Lysandre stopped near him he stared at him in confusion. For a second Lysandre contemplated putting his hand on his shoulder – then he decided against it.
"How's your malamar?" he asked instead.
If Xerosic could have gotten any paler, he probably would have.
"Nero?" he said, incredulous. "He's fine. Is there something wrong?"
Lysandre looked away. "Everything is fine. We'll talk tomorrow."
With that, he walked out, leaving a dumbfounded Xerosic behind.
*
The anxiety he felt regarding the prospect of seeing Bryony again – the old Bryony, happy and vibrant and ready to crush any opponent under her boot – was somehow much greater than the one he'd felt once confronted with the real Sycamore. He suspected that it was mostly because he'd been thrown into the situation before he could fully dread it; even then, it still seemed surprising. In truth, he didn't have any kind of relationship with that Bryony. Perhaps that was what he feared above everything else.
He called a meeting in one of the offices of their headquarters and pretended he was reading notes he'd left there at some point as his scientists walked in. He sneaked a glance at Mable, remembering the foreign feeling of her lips on his. Did she already carry feelings for him? She noticed him staring and blushed darkly, unsettled. He cleared his throat.
"Thank you very much for coming," he said as he stood. He looked up and couldn't help but pale upon being confronted with the sight of Celosia, standing and alive, awaiting his orders.
She was right next to Bryony, of course. They were always close, but never obvious, perhaps afraid that he might disapprove of them dating as colleagues. Maybe they thought he disapproved of love as a distraction from their goals in general. That seemed like something the person he used to be would believe in.
He tried his best not to stare at Bryony. He had no desire to scare her away.
"I need you to coordinate our searches for the key that will be used to activate the machine," he said solemnly, crossing his arms behind his back. "You will need to be on the lookout for a man double my height. A giant, if you will."
Aliana's lips curled into a sarcastic smile. "That shouldn't be too hard."
He couldn't see it with the visor, but he was certain Mable had rolled her eyes at her intervention.
"Do you know where we should be looking precisely?" Celosia asked, focused. Lysandre managed to hide how odd it was to hear her voice again after so long.
"Unfortunately, we cannot be sure yet," he said. "You might want to start with the surroundings of Lumiose. There is a strong possibility that he is not sedentary, so I'm confident we will find him eventually. Don't be afraid to send out recruits after him."
They nodded, almost in sync. He felt strangely proud that he'd been able to find such competent subordinates. He gestured that the meeting was over, but as Bryony moved to leave with Celosia, he couldn't help himself.
"Bryony, a word," he called out, his voice perfectly neutral in an attempt not to alarm her.
She shot Celosia a worried look – at least, that's what he assumed – but the purple-haired woman smiled at her reassuringly. They whispered to each other for a minute, probably so they could meet up later, and then Celosia left the room, leaving Lysandre and Bryony alone.
He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. She seemed convinced he was going to scold her; he could tell from the way she was standing, her anxiety plain in her face pointed downward and her feet together.
"I've noticed you and Celosia have gotten close," he said, careful and kind – but she still froze, her shoulders tense.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, playing with her hair. "We thought you might not like it, but..."
"Oh, no," Lysandre said quickly, shaking his head. "Not at all. I see no issues with it. I am glad our work can serve to unite the chosen ones in such a way," he added with a smile.
This seemed to calm her down somewhat, though his demeanor was apparently confusing every person he had been interacting with since he'd come back. She tried to smile, demure.
"That's a relief," she said. Then, she seemed struck by a thought, but maybe unsure whether to reveal it or not. She looked away.
"Is something on your mind?" he asked.
"Hm, well," Bryony mumbled, her cheeks reddening slightly, "it's just... what you said, about uniting chosen ones..."
"Yes?"
She smiled, more in an attempt to hide her embarrassment than out of any kind of joy or good humor. "Have you ever thought about inviting Professor Sycamore to join us?"
Lysandre blinked. He remembered the conversation they'd had about this, in another lifetime: she'd talked about how obvious it was that the professor had feelings for him, how it was a shame neither of them had ever tried to breach the polite distance between them.
Bryony appeared to take his stunned silence as proof that she'd made a bad move, and grimaced.
"I'm sorry," she said for the second time in less than ten minutes.
"No, it's alright," Lysandre said, and he even managed to smile. "I understand. However, I doubt the professor would agree with our... methods. I fear he might not want to associate with me at all if I were to express my goals to him in clearer terms."
Her lips curled down in sadness or perhaps disappointment. Whether it was at the idea that he couldn't be fully honest or at the fact that Augustine Sycamore would never join them, he could only guess. Maybe it was a mix of both.
"I see," she said quietly.
"You should go now," Lysandre said, and he pretended he had to go through his notes again. He took a handful and looked at them even though he'd completely forgotten what most of them referred to. "Celosia must be waiting for you."
"Yes," she said, her smile creeping back up on her face. "We'll work hard to find that giant man, rest assured."
He looked up from his notes as she walked toward the exit.
"I have no doubts about it," he replied with a confident smile.
Once she was gone, he let himself fall onto the nearest chair and sighed. Saving the world was proving to be a very stressful endeavor. He felt exhausted again, and he needed to go see Sycamore now, meet him at the lab, talk to him... touch him, he thought, hot and fast. He almost missed the cold caresses of his dead imaginary friend.
The thought of living, warm hands on his body was too much. He resolved to shower and go to the laboratory swiftly.
*
Time suddenly seemed to pass much faster now that he knew he was working against it. He wanted to hold on to the afternoons he could spend with Augustine Sycamore, but they kept slipping through his fingers with a cold inevitability.
The professor let him invite him to his café again, alone this time. When Lysandre tried to remember how things had gone the first time he'd lived this life, he found the memories involving Sycamore to be scarce and hazy and wondered whether they could have simply been dreams.
Someone had set up candles on the counter, illuminating the café in a way that came off as a lot more intimate than either of them were used to. Lysandre suspected it was Bryony.
"It looks like some of my employees took it upon themselves to set the scene for us," he said, aiming for casual. Sycamore's smile was making him a lot more nervous than he wanted to let on.
"It's lovely," Sycamore said, almost in a sigh. He sat at the one table they'd prepared for them and waited for Lysandre to join him.
This wasn't exactly part of the plan: the plan was a lot more austere and probably ended in him dying, or passing off as dead. Maybe that was why he'd let himself enjoy one self-indulgent moment of weakness. Lysandre tried not to frown at his own shortcomings as he took hold of the chair facing his friend.
"You're different," Sycamore said as soon as he sat. "You've been acting differently since our talk a few weeks ago."
Lysandre picked up the bottle of wine he'd carefully chosen the day before and proceeded to open it. "I'm afraid I haven't noticed any changes in my behavior myself."
"Of course not," Sycamore said, sounding amused by the prospect. He watched him pour them enough wine to be able to taste it. Lysandre lifted his glass to his nose and took a deep breath before taking a sip. He swallowed after a few seconds.
"Don't you want to try it?" he asked once he was done, as his friend hadn't even moved to take his glass in hand.
"I trust your judgment," Sycamore said with a smile wide enough to make his eyes narrow. He poured himself more wine and then took a sip.
Lysandre stared as he drank, his brow furrowed, his mouth hanging slightly open. That made the other man laugh, and then pour him a full glass of wine.
"Like I said, you're different," Sycamore went on as Lysandre drank carefully. "Not in a bad way, just... different. More relaxed, maybe."
Lysandre thought it over, holding his glass in his hand. He did feel a lot more at ease than he remembered feeling before all of this. To say that he was more relaxed than he was when he'd just destroyed the world was a grave understatement. Mostly, he felt... better. It was vague, but it was true. The confidence he felt in this new mission was a lot more comforting than the pride he'd felt regarding the previous one. The fact that he could now enjoy quality time with Augustine Sycamore was a welcome bonus, although he wasn't sure he was willing to linger on that factor.
Instead, he smiled, rolling his glass between his fingers.
"Do you believe in fate, professor?"
Sycamore seemed to consider the question very seriously before answering, his eyes following the movements of the wine glass. "I'd say yes. Why? Do you think we were fated to meet?"
Lysandre made a face and put his glass back down on the table.
"Perhaps that was too forward of me," he said before he could stop himself.
He was about to go on with an apology when Sycamore brushed his fingertips against the hand he'd pressed on the table next to his glass. The contact made Lysandre look up to meet his gaze.
"I feel very blessed to have met you," Sycamore said, his pale blue eyes staring right into him.
It was– Lysandre wanted to tell him that he bore no blessing, more likely a curse. There was no denying that sincere gaze, though. He felt very warm, all of a sudden.
"I feel the same way," he murmured. Sycamore looked pleased, and his hand was still very close to his. Lysandre stood up. "I will bring our meal."
The professor nodded, to Lysandre's great relief.
He took his time putting the plates together, seizing the opportunity to recompose himself. He had minimal experience when it came to these matters: forming close, intimate relationships was usually the means to an end, and to that there was the added challenge of dishonesty. He could be honest about his feelings, but he could not be honest about anything else. It was too early to be found out: he needed to find AZ, he needed to make sure the machine couldn't be used anymore. He needed to ruin all of his chances to pull this off, and that required, in the plan he'd come up with over the weeks, to follow his previous plan almost all the way through.
When he returned to the room he found his friend absentmindedly playing with his glass, tugging at it with his index finger. Sycamore looked up at him and smiled.
"Antipasto," Lysandre announced as he set the plates on the table.
Sycamore's delight was palpable. He clasped his hands together with great enthusiasm. "This is so colorful, Lysandre!"
"Hm," Lysandre replied, taking his seat once again. "Thank you. There is no meat in it," he added.
This seemed to be the opposite of surprising. Sycamore merely nodded and then proceeded to shovel an alarming amount of vegetables into his mouth. It was far from exquisite table manners, but the eagerness more than made up for it.
Lysandre took a bite of what was on his own plate and immediately found himself critical of what he'd come up with. The seasoning could have been more balanced and the vegetables fresher. Focusing on food was making this encounter a lot less daunting to deal with.
Across the table, Sycamore let out what could only be described as an overwhelmingly pleased moan.
"I'm sorry, I'm eating like a real tepig," he said after having thoroughly wiped his mouth, his eyes glinting with something that was half-apologetic, half-ecstatic. "This is so good, though, Lysandre, your food is always so wonderful."
Lysandre cleared his throat. "You flatter me."
"Actually, you know, this actually has nothing to do with anything, but," Sycamore started, before pausing to take another mouthful of antipasto, "I've thought about what we've been discussing a few times, about taking students."
He was trying very hard not to speak with his mouth full, but only succeeding halfway. Lysandre hid his smile behind his tablecloth.
"Yes? Did you come to any positive conclusions?" he inquired, hopeful.
Sycamore swallowed a particularly hefty bite with some of his wine. "Turns out Grace Primrose is moving to Vaniville Town in a few months! Dexio heard all about it, apparently. That boy would make a great spy."
He punctuated his last words by chewing on his food thoughtfully. Lysandre bit the inside of his cheek.
"Is that so? The retired rhydon racer?"
"Herself, and she has a son! Seems like a perfect candidate, if you ask me. I'm sure he'll have picked up a few things from his mom."
Lysandre made a non-committal noise at that, trying to summon Grace Primrose's appearance from his memory. He seemed to remember her being a fairly good-looking woman, a fact that was bothering him for reasons he didn't particularly want to ponder.
"There's also those kids who come around the lab sometimes," Sycamore went on, and Lysandre suddenly realized the professor had already managed to swallow three-quarters of his plate's contents. "That blonde girl, the one with the ponytail, do you recall?"
The description was vaguely familiar. Lysandre frowned.
"Isn't she the daughter of some famous battlers?"
Sycamore nodded, swallowing his mouthful too quickly. He coughed and then proceeded to empty his glass in an attempt to fix his mistake. Lysandre filled his own glass, thinking about the children who'd sometimes come to the laboratory to see the pokémons or ask questions about training. He'd always found it encouraging, a sign that there were still people out there that could possess the drive to make the world a better place.
"Yeah, and she has that group of friends, I think they're all from Vaniville, actually," Sycamore added when he'd finally managed to clear his throat. "So, that works out wonderfully! Fate, like we said."
Lysandre couldn't help but smile.
"You're eating too fast," he said, perhaps in a slightly too paternalistic fashion. Sycamore lifted one eyebrow, his mouth full once more. "Wouldn't too many students be harder to manage for you?"
"Hey now, you're the one who suggested this in the first place. I just figured I might as well start big, that way at least one of them will stick. Plus, I really do need people who can experiment with mega-evolution outside of the lab... Arceus knows Dexio and Sina are in over their heads already."
Staring at Sycamore's empty plate, Lysandre nodded. It wasn't such a bad plan. In truth, it was exactly what he wanted, and more: people who would be able to get in his way, even if they were children and lab assistants. He had faith in the professor and knew that whoever he chose would be perfect.
"You're not hungry?" Sycamore asked after a short silence. Lysandre rolled his eyes.
"I can only dream to ever be as ravenous as you are," he retorted with a poorly contained smirk. "Watching you eat is enough to feed me, it seems."
"Really?" Sycamore said at that, and he was smirking as well, and Lysandre was fairly certain the atmosphere was slipping toward flirtation once again. He stood up and picked up the plates.
He said nothing as he walked back to the kitchen, but his heartbeat was annoyingly loud in his ears. When he came back with a new bottle of wine and the main dish, Sycamore was busy reading the label of the bottle they'd just emptied.
"Lysandre," he said, frowning, "how much did this cost, exactly?"
"Polenta," Lysandre replied, putting the plate down, his expression as neutral as ever. "You do like mushrooms, don't you?"
Sycamore sighed, but the sight of the new dish brightened up his mood immediately. "I'd eat anything you cook for me, and that includes poison," he enthused.
With something that was suspiciously close to a snort, Lysandre walked to the counter to bring his own plate. He opened the new wine bottle before sitting down to pour some for both of them without even bothering to taste it.
"Should I gather you believe me capable of poisoning you, then?" he asked as Sycamore took his first cheerful bite of polenta.
The fact that they were more or less discussing whether or not Lysandre could be trusted should have made him more anxious, but suddenly his guilt and resolve were melting away, carried out by warm wine and Sycamore's relentless enthusiasm for his cooking.
"I wouldn't dare," Sycamore finally replied after swallowing loudly. "This tastes so good, though, it should be illegal."
"If it were illegal, you wouldn't be able to taste it," Lysandre pointed out. He lifted his glass and took a sip.
Sycamore laughed. "Now that'd be quite a shame."
Lysandre took a cautious bite of his own polenta and decided that it was a far greater success than his antipasto could ever wish to be. Judging by his noises of appreciation, Sycamore agreed. For several minutes, they ate in silence, too focused on the food to think about anything else.
It was Sycamore who finally spoke again, after downing a full glass of wine in one go. Unsurprisingly, his plate was already almost empty.
"What have you been up to, lately? You haven't talked about your ideas and plans in a while." He stabbed a particularly large mushroom piece with his fork before carefully slicing it in two. "I kind of miss it."
Lysandre cleared his throat. "I'm afraid my most recent affairs have been dreadfully boring. I'm far more content discussing your future students."
The professor's eyes were alight with a mix of amusement and puzzlement. Lysandre tried not to stare into them for too long.
"That's funny," Sycamore said. Instead of clarifying what, exactly, was funny, he busied himself with quickly consuming what was left of his dish. Lysandre frowned.
This dinner had proven to be quite an interesting event, although he was still somewhat anxious as to how it was going to end. He couldn't deny that coming clean about his feelings would be quite cathartic – not to mention, quite pleasurable, were the feelings in question to indeed be reciprocated – but he found the idea to be mostly terrifying still. What would even happen to them afterward?
What indeed, Sycamore's pale eyes seemed to say, watching him as if they knew something he didn't. For a quick, disconcerting moment, Lysandre couldn't help being reminded of the other Sycamore – the dead, fake one – and his tendency to act as if he was ahead of him at all times. A tendency which, of course, proved to be quite ridiculous once you considered the fact that that Sycamore was nothing more than himself.
Lysandre's frown deepened, unsure how exactly he'd ended up reflecting on such pointless matters. He poured himself more wine, moving to do the same for Sycamore. The professor gave a short nod. He wiped his mouth and sighed deeply.
"Is there more?" he asked. It was hard to say whether he was eager, or worried.
"Of course. I made dessert."
Sycamore leaned against his chair, arching his back slightly. "Is there another bottle of wine to go with the dessert?"
"No," Lysandre said. He tried to stay solemn but when Sycamore raised one eyebrow at him, he couldn't suppress his smile. "I bought champagne."
"You don't like champagne," Sycamore remarked, letting his head fall against the back of his chair.
"I thought it was appropriate for a celebration, especially one that involves apple pie."
At that, Lysandre rose from his chair once again to pick up their plates and bring them back to the kitchen.
Sycamore perked up, suddenly looking ready to eat at least twice more food than he'd already ingested. "You're spoiling me," he moaned in a tone that Lysandre found both extremely pleasing and astonishingly inappropriate. "What are we celebrating?"
"Your future students, of course." Lysandre smirked as he walked toward the kitchen.
Sycamore chuckled.
"I don't know if this is reasonable," he said when Lysandre came back with a full, glistening pie and a fancy bottle of champagne. Nevertheless, he watched intently as Lysandre settled the pie on the counter and cut a generous slice of it.
"We can allow ourselves to indulge just for tonight, I think." Lysandre put the plate down in front of his friend.
"You know I can't say no to this," Sycamore sighed. He gave up on the idea of eating properly before even trying, and picked up the slice to bury his teeth into the soft, sugary apples.
Lysandre sat down with his own, much smaller slice, and cut into it slowly. He was stalling, somewhat; he still had no idea what was going to happen once they were done eating. He chewed on a bit of apple and opened the champagne, careful to tilt it away from the table.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Sycamore said while Lysandre filled the new glass he'd brought for him to the brim.
"Are you drunk?" Lysandre asked, taking a sip from his own glass. He couldn't stop himself from grimacing a little: it was very good champagne, but very good champagne still had the disgusting aftertaste of champagne. He resolved to drink all of it either way.
Sycamore considered the question, pushing the little piece of crust he was left with into his open mouth.
"S'hard to tell," he mumbled after he was done chewing. "I feel pretty good, though."
Lysandre smiled. He had to admit he felt rather light and warm himself, although his body weight did help when it came to withstanding the effects of alcohol. "I'm always glad to hear that."
"I always feel good when I'm with you," Sycamore added quickly. He paused, eyes narrowed, before adding, "Okay, maybe I'm a little bit drunk."
Despite this, he still brought his glass to his lips and swallowed at least half of what was in it. Lysandre stared at the bottom of his own glass.
"That was weird," Sycamore hammered, apologetic. "Sorry."
"It's alright," Lysandre replied, looking up to meet unfocused but very warm eyes.
He was convinced there was something else he meant to say – was supposed to say, even – but instead he frowned, and drank what was left in his own glass. He looked down at his plate and wondered when, exactly, he'd eaten the pie that was previously there.
"Think we've had enough alcohol for one night," Sycamore mumbled. "We should go for a walk," he added, louder.
Lysandre looked fairly unimpressed by that prospect. "At this hour?"
"I need to clear my head," Sycamore insisted, and before Lysandre could protest further he was already standing and reaching for his coat.
Soon they were walking through the cold dark streets in silence. At some point, as they approached the nearby park, Sycamore stumbled and caught Lysandre's arm to steady himself. Once he was walking straight again, he still kept his hand tightly wrapped around the fabric of Lysandre's coat. The taller man tried his best not to pay too close attention to it, vaguely afraid that if his friend realized he'd noticed, he might let go of him.
They were nearing the closest subway station when Sycamore let out a sigh. He pressed his cheek against Lysandre's shoulder, making the man slow down to a stop.
"I want to see the Prism Tower," Sycamore mumbled. A strand of hair had fallen in front of his eyes and he sighed again, blowing on it in an attempt to make it go away.
"Alcohol makes you very demanding, it seems," Lysandre said, amused.
Sycamore frowned, tightening his grip around the other man's arm. The sensation sent exciting ripples to Lysandre's chest, an odd mixture of anxiety and eagerness to see where this was going.
"This has already turned into a date, so we might as well do something romantic," Sycamore said, and this time he moved his head away from Lysandre's arm to look up at him intently.
They stared at each other for a second or two, Lysandre seemingly unable to muster a response, and then Sycamore yawned loudly.
"I think it would be more prudent to bring you somewhere you can rest," Lysandre said before looking away in an attempt both to make sure that Sycamore couldn't see his expression and that he wouldn't be caught yawning through mimicry.
"I'll rest on one of those benches around the tower," Sycamore grumbled. Being drunk oddly seemed to take years off of his face, and his person in general. "Come on."
Lysandre shook his head. "We'll go at another date. Let's just walk some more."
Sycamore snorted, but didn't protest when they began walking again. He was still holding him by the arm.
"You said 'date'."
"I meant–" Lysandre started, but the words died in his mouth when he felt Sycamore pressing himself fully against his side, laughing.
"I know what you meant," he said in-between fits of giggles. "I wouldn't mind if this was a date, though. I think you wouldn't mind, either."
Lysandre decided to put the sudden flush he felt gaining his face on account of the cold weather.
"Well," he said.
Sycamore hummed. A gust of wind threw his hair in his eyes again, but he seemed past caring about it.
"I do... care about you very much, professor," Lysandre managed to say.
Understatement of the year, a voice that sounded very much like the snidest tone of his fake Sycamore said inside his head. He elected to ignore it completely.
"Call me Augustine, don't be silly," Sycamore said, his voice very low and his cheek once again firmly pressed against Lysandre.
"You truly are drunk," Lysandre said. Somehow, he found himself sounding almost fond.
He couldn't be sure, but it seemed to him that Augustine had replied with a barely whispered, "shut up." He said nothing, choosing instead to maneuver so they would start walking back toward the café, smiling all the while.
When they entered, Augustine almost fell over again, but Lysandre swiftly caught him with both arms. Augustine's eyes were large and enticing as he let himself be held for much longer than was necessary. Lysandre quickly straightened him back up and turned away to take off his coat and scarf.
"You have big arms," Augustine said, abandoning his own clothing hastily onto the chair he'd previously occupied.
"I am told my size is fairly impressive," Lysandre replied evenly without looking at him. This was definitely spiraling out of control.
His body stiffened when he felt a hand take hold of his arm once again.
"You're so fucking big," Augustine grumbled, and there was something about the tone of his voice that made the hair on the back of Lysandre's neck stand up. It seemed as if the professor was somehow getting drunker by the minute. He groaned, pressing his forehead against Lysandre's back. "This sucks."
"You should stay here tonight," Lysandre suggested gently. He turned around, cautious of Augustine's body so close to his, and held him firmly by the shoulders when it seemed like he was about to collapse again.
Augustine smiled, his eyes narrowing. "I don't sleep on the first date, you know," he said, sounding oddly lucid about it.
Letting go of him a bit too hurriedly, Lysandre made a face.
"I would never– take advantage of you," he stumbled on the words, realizing that, from a certain point of view, they could almost be considered a lie.
"I know." Augustine's voice betrayed nothing but confident sincerity.
He took a step toward Lysandre, getting even closer, and buried his face in his cravat. Lysandre didn't dare to move.
"I'll get the bedroom ready for you," he said tentatively.
Augustine laughed against him.
"I've thought about this situation a lot, but I never thought I'd be drunk," he said, the words barely decipherable.
"Well," Lysandre said. He let one of his hands fall against Augustine's back.
"Make sure I apologize to you tomorrow," Augustine went on.
Lysandre was beginning to suspect that he was starting to fall asleep, so he delicately pushed him away. Augustine blinked.
"As I said, I'll prepare the room."
Augustine nodded vaguely, and let himself be guided toward a chair he promptly fell on rather than sat. Once he was certain his friend wasn't going anywhere, Lysandre walked out to reach the elevator that led toward his apartment.
It was only once he was inside of his red, chic interior with his pyroar napping on the carpet that the weight of what was going on suddenly dawned on him. Bryony – and probably every other person who'd ever seen them together before – had been right, and when he was certain he'd feel at least some excitement upon discovering this a few hours prior, he suddenly felt nothing but overwhelming sadness.
Bryony had been right, which meant that now that they'd had this – date – he would be breaking Augustine Sycamore's heart on top of everything. A necessary evil, surely – but it was a burden he hadn't had any time to get used to the idea of bearing. There was so much that he wanted; selfishly, of course, once again. He'd let himself be dragged into this while fully aware that it would have nothing but negative consequences, and now he was going to have to break a friendship and a budding romance, on top of everything.
Even if he rejected him now – the result would still be the same. He could picture Dialga, somewhere in their realm of absolute darkness, laughing at him. He'd played himself.
He cleaned up his bedroom, hiding notes and schematics in locked drawers, making sure nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and led the way for Augustine, catching him again before he could fall outside of the elevator.
"Really clumsy," he mumbled apologetically when Lysandre held him as they walked toward the room.
The professor sat on the large bed, eying his surroundings with some curiosity, then looked up at Lysandre.
"Where are you going to sleep?" he asked.
Lysandre blinked. "I suppose I'll have to settle for the couch."
For a second, Augustine seemed disappointed, but then he rubbed his eyes.
"Apologize tomorrow," he repeated, before letting himself fall against the pillow, fast asleep.
Lysandre wasn't exactly surprised to find him so easily brought to such drunkenness: he knew for a fact that, outside of their dinners, the professor didn't exactly have time to consume alcohol very often, especially considering the days and nights he usually spent at the lab. Still, he'd expected the evening to end in a less... spectacular way. He sat on the couch, his proximity waking up his pyroar, who shot him a cautious glance.
"I have no idea what I'm doing," he said to no one in particular. His pyroar yawned sympathetically.
*
The next morning, Lysandre woke up to Augustine standing in front of his couch with a mix of shame and anxiety written on his face. When he realized he'd woken him up, he gasped.
"I'm so sorry!" Augustine said before Lysandre could even think of opening his mouth. He straightened himself up, running a hand through his hair.
"There's no need to apologize," he said with a small smile.
"No, it's–" Augustine took a deep breath, pressing a shaky palm to the side of his face. "I vomited in your toilet."
He paused, surely expecting to be reprimanded, but instead Lysandre merely stared at him, as if he was fascinated by his very existence. The professor let out a strangled laugh.
"Actually, it's a miracle it didn't happen earlier– I love your food, you know, but that was a lot for one dinner, and I'm just not used to eating that much, and with the alcohol–"
Lysandre held up his hand and the rest of his rambling was cut off immediately.
"It's alright," Lysandre said.
"What?" Augustine croaked in disbelief.
"It's fine. Do you feel better?"
Augustine frowned. His hair was all over the place, strands going in every direction with no rhyme or reason, and against the muted morning light coming through the gaps in his blinds, Lysandre found him agonizingly beautiful.
"Yeah, I do feel better, thanks," Augustine enunciated carefully. This put an amused smile on his friend's face, and Lysandre gestured for him to join him on the couch.
They sat very close to each other, shoulders brushing lightly. Lysandre was struck by the normalcy of it all – in that very moment, he was sitting next to this man who was alive and well, in a world that he hadn't half-destroyed, at a time when his misdeeds hadn't even exactly happened. This was the peak, he realized. The highest point before he would bring them both down and fix everything.
On impulse, he threw his arm around Augustine and brought him close, burying his face in his hair. He closed his eyes and ordered himself not to cry.
"Is everything fine?" Augustine's voice asked, but his body offered no resistance, relaxed against his. "You're starting to worry me a little."
"I'm happy," Lysandre whispered close to his ear. Augustine's shiver was shared through their proximity.
He was warm and it felt so good. Deep in that haze, Lysandre vaguely wondered how he could have survived without this for so long. Not even romantic love, specifically – he recalled Bryony's smile, Xerosic's nervous habits, the vibe given off by a crowd enjoying a nice meal all together almost as one big family and felt the same, the same warmth and the same calm sense of belonging. Not in the grand scheme of things, not in the tales written down in history, no – but in other people's hearts. The knowledge that you could trust others, that you could depend on them. Lysandre let out a laugh, muffled by hair. He was starting to sound like a drunk poet blinded by naivety. Perhaps he would do well not to get too carried away.
Instead, he focused on more concrete things: the hard planes of Augustine's body pressed against his, the smell of his hair tickling his nose. The fast pace of his heartbeat he could feel directly, unless it was his own heart – when so close to someone else, it could be difficult to tell.
Augustine let out a contented sigh.
"This is nice," he said, sounding almost drunk again, suddenly. "I like this new, weird Lysandre who cooks me good food and brings me home for hugs."
Lysandre laughed again. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so elated. The vibrations of Augustine's laughter against him were exhilarating.
"This is new to me as well," he admitted quietly.
"Yeah," Augustine said as if he knew. Perhaps he did; for once Lysandre decided not to linger too long on his perceived incompetence.
Instead, he opened his eyes and leaned his face toward Augustine's, and touched the soft skin of his neck. Augustine hummed and did not pull away.
They were kissing before Lysandre could register it was happening. Augustine's tongue tasted like mouthwash; Lysandre thought that he'd probably rinsed his mouth after vomiting in the bathroom. Then he didn't really think of anything at all. Augustine spread his fingers against Lysandre's chest, his palms flat, pushing to get even closer. They almost tumbled over and fell off the couch before breaking away from each other. Lysandre's pyroar was observing them from afar, his eyes glinting.
"Ah, sorry," Augustine mumbled. He still sounded either drunk or half-asleep.
Lysandre buried his face in his neck and hugged him close, his arms firm and tight around him. "Stop apologizing."
He felt Augustine's hands now gripping him by the shoulders, as if afraid that he might let go.
"This is just– a lot," Augustine groaned, "to take in."
"Hmm," was all Lysandre had to say in reply. "Do you really think my arms are 'fucking' big?"
Augustine laughed, shaking in his embrace. "Everything about you is big. Come on. Everyone is checking you out all the time."
"Let's not exaggerate."
"I mean it, come on." Augustine shifted away from him to deliver his most stern look. "You look like you could carry me twice."
Lysandre suppressed a smile. "Alright."
This didn't seem to be the reaction Augustine had meant to provoke, judging by the eyebrow he was now crooking at him, but Lysandre had decided they'd had enough strong emotions for one morning.
"I'll bring apple pie for our breakfast," Lysandre went on, finally fully detaching himself from the other man so he could rise from the couch. Augustine let out a sigh of defeat and watched him leave the room with narrowed eyes and a flushed face.
They'd left everything in the café in Lysandre's haste to bring his friend to bed, and so he had to take the elevator back to gather plates and leftovers. He tidied up the kitchen quickly, thinking about everything that was happening at once. Cruelly, he was gathering the strength to do what he needed to do in these moments – he couldn't stall much further. He would reminisce on the taste of Augustine Sycamore's lips to steady himself as he walked toward what would probably be the end of him, and everything would be fine.
It was so odd, to feel so relaxed, so odd, to sit at his kitchen table and eat apple pie with Augustine and his crumpled clothes and his reddened cheeks and his hair all over the place. They didn't really discuss what had happened, even when Augustine suddenly realized he needed to get to the lab fast and Lysandre had to excuse himself because the café had to reopen in time for lunch. They merely exchanged knowing glances and, before leaving, Augustine took Lysandre's hand in his and gave it one firm squeeze; it could have passed for a handshake, but they both knew better. Lysandre was still smiling when his first employees began to arrive.
"Good evening, huh," Bryony said, and then, visibly amazed by her own boldness, winked at him.
Lysandre stared at her in disbelief for a second before clearing his throat. "It went well."
"Did the candles help?" So it had been her. Her excitement was communicative.
"A lot," Lysandre replied, deadpan. It made her laugh, and the sound brightened the whole room.
*
They had more dates, but never truly as intense. Augustine was respectful of the distance Lysandre still kept between them at times, and Lysandre was fine with holding his hand and kissing him sometimes.
Days were passing by, turning into weeks which turned into months. AZ had been spotted a few times, recruits reported, but never caught. Xerosic was telling him all kinds of things he already knew about the machine, regarding data, regarding the timeline of what they had planned. Lysandre always listened, even asking questions when he already knew the answers.
On a rainy autumn day, Augustine looked at him over a cup of hot coffee and told him Grace Primrose was moving the week after. Truthfully, he'd almost forgotten; they hadn't discussed the subject much since then, outside of Augustine taking any occasion to brag about the children who were still occasionally visiting. Lysandre had merely seen them in passing: there wasn't much time left for courtesy visits anymore.
Everything was coming together.
"I was thinking about giving three of them a pokémon," Augustine said after taking a long sip of his coffee. "Grace's son and Serena are the obvious choices, but..."
"Serena is the daughter of those battlers?" Lysandre held his face in his palm, trying to focus on the conversation instead of how badly he wanted to kiss him. They weren't alone, and it was inappropriate.
"Yeah, she's an interesting child," Augustine replied, his smile reaching up to his eyes to make them shine in the artificial light. "I'm sure having to look after her new neighbor will do her some good."
An interesting child, Lysandre thought. He'd been an interesting child as well, too busy studying the world and the pokémons that inhabited it to pay too much attention to the humans. If she was anything like him, then surely friends could only help her grow up better than he did.
"You look really concerned," Augustine said, taking him out of his memories. "Are you having second thoughts?"
The hidden meaning, as unintentional as it was, made Lysandre frown.
"I have no doubt you will do well, still," Lysandre said, and to further prove it he reached across the table with his free hand and touched the back of Augustine's lightly.
Augustine took his hand in his and his smile was everything a man needed to see to know he had to save the world.
Or, as a matter of fact, not to be the one the world needed saving from.
*
Serena was indeed an interesting child. She held herself tight, her expression always serious, the frown on her face always slightly there. Oddly, she reminded him of Malva, who at this time was constantly unavailable and always considered his offers to meet her sternly, pointing out she was awfully busy at the Elite Four and hanging up before he could ask her how everything was going.
The Primrose son, though – Calem, as it turned out – was inhabited mostly by an eagerness to learn new things that was plainly written on his face. He found their pair charming; at the back of his mind, he thought that they were akin to another pair, but the thought made him somewhat embarrassed.
There were three more children, the ones who used to visit often. He recalled them vaguely: the girl who always seemed excited about something, the boy who told anyone who would listen about his passion for dancing, the other boy with the vibrant orange hair who always looked at the professor with something that was on the fringe of adoration. They were good people, he was sure. He wished he could have more time to get to know them.
He wished he could have more time to get to know Diantha, who was tense around him and whom he decided to antagonize for reasons he wasn't entirely set on. Maybe it was the memory of her death – the image of her bloated corpse, Malva crying in front of him for the first time in so long. She was beautiful, and it was better to push her away, to brag and rant and talk about the worst of what he'd meant to do, back when he still believed it was the right thing.
Her eyes were cold and dark when he left, convinced this was for the best. Maybe later he could apologize – maybe not. He thought about Augustine looking at him with those same eyes and faltered.
Celosia was waiting for him when he returned to his café to check on their operations, her back very straight and her brow furrowed.
"Boss," she said quickly, executing the ridiculous salute they'd come up with at some point. He nodded at her.
"Celosia. What is it?"
She pressed a finger to the side of her visor and considered something for a few seconds before she spoke. "We believe we should be able to catch the giant very soon. It seems his perimeter is progressively getting smaller."
Lysandre nodded again, wondering what this could possibly mean. Could AZ sense they were setting up the machine again? If so, why hadn't he done something about it the last time they'd unearthed it?"
"About Yveltal... we've finally pinpointed their position. We have several teams working toward incapacitating them and bringing them to Geosenge. It's a matter of weeks, if not days."
She pressed her finger against her visor again and smiled. Slightly unnerved, Lysandre smiled back.
"Very good. I will supervise the last steps. I'll be at Geosenge this afternoon."
"Of course, boss. We'll see you then."
She saluted again as he left her to walk to the secret entrance that led to his second elevator. He wondered whether she found the salute as ludicrous as he did. What a way to stroke one's ego.
Two weeks later, Yveltal was nesting inside the machine, and Lysandre had kept a close eye on the professor's students' progress. He still visited him sometimes, but simply seeing Augustine smile at him was starting to make him feel a bit sick.
He was sticking to his plans, but sometimes he wished those plans involved leaving the country with Augustine and pretending nothing between them had ever been built on a lie or several.
*
The kids – the chosen ones – were getting in his way, and it was a delight. Whenever the girls came to report on their failings, all pained apologies and anxious body language, he had to try hard not to smile a little. He had to get mad – he had to be angry, or disappointed, but always confident that nothing would stand in their way. They'd captured a god, after all – a god hiding inside a cocoon in an almost hibernating state, but a god nonetheless. Whenever he caught a glimpse of Yveltal's egg inside the machine, he always felt empty and defeated. He hoped the children would be able to rescue them so that no more harm could come to them.
On a cloudy afternoon, Augustine invited him to meet the children properly. Lysandre wondered whether Diantha had said anything about him recently, but neither of them mentioned it.
For the children's sake, he put on his best show; in fairness, they were an easily impressed audience. He listened to Augustine's praise and did his best to bear the warm, proud look in his eyes whenever he gave his compliments. Serena was not particularly swayed, her arms crossed in front of her ever-so-straight form, but Calem's eyes lit up expectantly upon being told about legends and royalty. Lysandre had to offer him a parting gift: it seemed unfair to not give him something to repent for all his acting and pretense. That evening, Augustine invited him out for dinner and gave him even more praise. Lysandre let himself be kissed in an empty street as they were walking back to his café.
He found himself taking a strange satisfaction in calling up Augustine's students and talking to them. The professor had been a bit too eager to give him their numbers, if he had to be honest, but it was an efficient way to keep an eye on them. They both knew he could have gotten the numbers anyway; telling them he'd been put in contact with them through Augustine just seemed more natural. The excitable girl, Shauna, always was the one who was the most willing to discuss the most egregious things with him, telling him all about her father and her braixen and how funny it was to feed her sticks and watch her breathe out little puffs of smoke. They talked at length about poképuff recipes and when she suggested that they should meet to bake together, Lysandre found it most unfortunate to have to decline.
Was the world always so bright? Even in his younger years, when he was more hopeful, he found that he'd always considered everything that wasn't him with a detached kind of contempt. Kalos was beautiful and its people were wonderful but he, most importantly, was the one who was here to make everything even better. He was going to fix everything, even if there was nothing to fix. Now everything seemed oddly, disarmingly better as if he'd suddenly woken up from a long nightmare filled with distress and distrust. He looked back on his doubts about how humans could thrive on fewer resources without resorting to self-destruction and found them fueled by contempt, and a refusal to give others the benefit of the doubt. If they could not agree with his vision, then they were worthless humans, unless they could somehow prove themselves to him – but nothing was ever enough. Every proof could be disregarded. It was easier to be right than it was to admit one's own mistakes.
He wondered whether this AZ would be proud of him for succeeding where he'd failed. He doubted he would care.
They found him something like a month and a half later. Lysandre couldn't help but think he'd let himself be caught: perhaps he'd somehow sensed that they'd started the machine back up and wanted to avoid any more damage being done.
That was it, then. The last step before he could finally enact his plan.
When he faced AZ, he tried his best not to show he already knew him. He wanted to play dumb so that there'd be no way for him to appear to be involved. He didn't want to implicate him.
Secretly, he'd hoped that this AZ would retain the memory of having met him, of having shared his pathetic history. The king's face remained grim and dark, his eyes barely seeming to register anything. Lysandre smiled to himself, at his own naivety.
That was it, then.
*
Even though he couldn't see her face behind the visor, Lysandre could tell that Mable was avoiding his eyes. He'd called her to his office in the final hours because he couldn't stand to ask Bryony. It was selfish, but he was past the point of caring about these things. She wrung her hands together behind her back where she thought he couldn't see and awaited his orders.
"I need you to hold on to something for me," he said, taking the elevator key out of his pocket.
She stared at it as if it was the key they'd taken from AZ days prior, to unlock the machine. "Why?"
He didn't expect her to ask questions. His grip on the key tightened, betraying his annoyance despite his efforts.
"If something were to happen, I trust you to take care of this place," he said, slowly, enunciating each word carefully to try and take the edge off them. Mable frowned.
"Are you worried?"
"Mable," he snapped, making her flinch. She held her face down and nodded.
Her fingers brushed against his when she finally moved to take the key. She recoiled immediately, a dark flush climbing up her face. In this instant, Lysandre felt pity for her, for her affection toward him, and disgust for himself, who was taking advantage of her one last time. She slipped the key in her pocket, her lips tightly pressed together as if she was fighting back the urge to say something, ask more questions, anger him further.
He held up his hand and slowly placed it on one of her shoulder pads. She straightened her back.
"I apologize for my tense demeanor," he said, but this only seemed to fluster her further.
"You don't have to– I shouldn't talk back to you. I'm nervous," she admitted, her mouth trembling into a slight, embarrassed smile. "We're so close."
Lysandre nodded. He missed being able to see her eyes.
"There's something else you have to do for me. Please tell the girls that you all need to stay here when the weapon launches..." He could see her stir, begin to shake her head, so he repeated himself, raising his voice, "You need to stay here. I need you to stay here, in case something goes wrong."
"Why do you–" she started, stopped herself, bit her lip, and started again, "why are you so convinced something will go wrong?"
"Nothing will go wrong," Lysandre heard himself lie, smiling confidently as he did. "But if something were to happen, I want you girls to be safe above everyone else."
His words had the intended effect; Mable looked down again, at her feet, her face scrunched-up as if she was about to cry.
"Alright," she said, her voice strained, "boss."
Feeling nothing but contempt for himself, Lysandre patted her on the shoulder and sent her on her way. This was for the best, of course, and in a few days perhaps Mable would recall this encounter with a kind of resigned relief at the thought that this decision had saved her and her colleagues from a lot of grief; but for now it just made him feel sick, sick of all the lies he was leaving behind and all the lies he had to say still.
He took out his holo-caster.
*
"I'm sorry, but this is adieu to you all," his voice said, loud and clear, but frighteningly flat. He'd recorded the message in advance, in case his nerves got the best of him.
There had been – a pull, to go and visit Augustine one last time, before everything between them would be destroyed beyond repair, but he repressed it. How egotistic. He couldn't let himself hurt him further in an attempt to appease his own torment. As such, it had been a week since they'd last seen each other when Augustine received the message. Lysandre tried not to think about that.
He'd smashed his own holo-caster to pieces, in case anyone tried to call him, and because the mindless act of violence soothed his rapid heart rate and his blooming headache. He had work to do.
The work in question proved to come much faster than he'd expected. He exited his elevator only to be met with Serena and Calem's accusing glares.
He thought about Shauna. Another relationship he'd indulged in that would only serve to wreak more havoc. He tried to remember what Bryony had said, in another world, about him being a good man, but the phrase rang hollow to his ears.
Calem was a remarkable battler, of course. It didn't matter that Lysandre was holding back, that he was acting: they weren't. They were sincere, in their hurt, and their words, and he was lying still even as they criticized him for being a liar. He was lying for their sake – but at that point, even if he'd told the truth, they wouldn't have believed him anyway.
They were children, teenagers – and Lysandre had been a teenager once, hiding his face in his mother's dresses, catching glances of other children his age when he was walking down the market with one of the butlers, so they could buy food for his magikarp. He'd been dramatic and eager and passionate – and he still was. Sometimes, those were things you couldn't outgrow. He hoped they wouldn't, either.
He went down to where they'd locked down AZ and listened to the sound of his expensive shoes as they hit the cold stone floor. The former king was standing in his cell. There was no life left in him; he merely stared at the ground. Lysandre remembered that feeling all too well. It was a cold, painful sensation in the pit of his stomach. He hated it. It reminded him of Sycamore's corpse pressing his fingers against the back of his neck. A cold chill. A promise.
The children came down to listen to the king's story. Lysandre, of course, knew it by heart, had heard it from the man himself, and from dusty old books he'd found in his father's library.
When he went back up the elevator, he was met with his scientists – bar Xerosic – standing all together in protest against his demand for them to leave, to not go to Geosenge, to wait and stay put and await further orders. They wanted to be there when the machine would bloom, they wanted to witness their victory. He wanted to tell them to run away, to hide, to forgive him for putting them in that situation.
Instead, he put on his best smile and told them he needed them to be out in the world in case something went wrong. They would celebrate later. Aliana stared at the ground, tugging at Mable's sleeve. The blue-haired girl seemed on the verge of saying something, her jaw set tight, but once again she gave up and kept quiet. When she left, Aliana still holding on to her arm, her footsteps rang heavy and loud against the steel tiles.
Bryony took off her visor and immediately, Lysandre had to look away – it was too much, but he deserved this.
"Boss," she said, in the tone she'd used to say his proper name, back then. "Is everything alright?"
At her side, Celosia bristled with worry, but she said nothing. She clenched her fists and said nothing. A well-tuned soldier. She'd died because of it, once.
"Of course," he said, still smiling. "This is our moment. Please, do not fret."
She frowned, glanced at Celosia, her anxious gait, and then back at Lysandre. She nodded.
"We'll talk to you later, then."
He hoped they would never talk to each other again. He hoped she and Celosia would grow old together and be happy, maybe laugh a little when reminiscing about the time they followed some old fool who wanted to change the world through annihilation. He watched them leave and then he rode the elevator further down, to join his head scientist in the lower basement.
Xerosic was so ecstatic about their functional doomsday device. He'd loved working on it, saving it from centuries of rust and rot hidden away in the dirt. He'd loved researching the archives for stories and legends and instructions on how to make it work perfectly.
Lysandre watched him for a long time.
In the dramatic play they were enacting, Xerosic was yet another unknowing actor; still, Lysandre knew he would play his role perfectly, aggravating the children as soon as Lysandre left, proclaiming all kinds of terrible things that they both believed in, once. Lysandre only stayed long enough to set the scene – the director role, he found, suited him better, but also felt more cowardly. It only served to enhance the bitterness weighing on his stomach.
He left his café and the children behind to argue and fight and solve a pointless riddle and then, choosing to let himself enjoy one last thing, sent out his gyarados so he could ride him through the kalosian skies, all the way to Geosenge and its stones standing proud against the test of time.
His grunts watched him with awe as he came back down. He hated their admiration, their blind faith. He barely looked at them. The end was near and he didn't want to be distracted.
They were soon all too busy staring with no less adoration – and horror, though maybe this was only how Lysandre was feeling – at the weapon finally blooming in front of their eyes, toppling them over as the earth started to shake beneath their feet. At that moment, watching the trees buckle and the houses cling desperately to their foundations, holding onto his unfazed gyarados for support, Lysandre couldn't help but think that making Xerosic witness this through a screen was somewhat of a shame. It seemed like a waste that the one person who would have enjoyed this the most couldn't be present as it was happening. At least he'd recorded it, making sure to immortalize their triumph.
Triumph. As he watched the grim flower that had emerged from the soil, Lysandre was reminded of the day he'd won, so long ago. Perhaps, if he took a deep breath, he would again smell the overpowering stench of smoke and death.
Yet, when he took his first step toward the entrance of their headquarters, all he could smell was the cold autumn air.
His lower-ranking scientists were fussing, running around the room overlooking the machine with what seemed to be a mix of excitement and nervosity. It made him nervous as well, having to wait for the next step of this pantomime in the middle of all of these pointless displays. Watching the cocoon down below, he listened to their jabber, their talks of using the energy from the standing stones on the route they'd closed off, and felt the tight grip of regret grasping at his heart. He did not raise his voice, although he wanted to, even when a grunt approached him sheepishly to inform him that "children were on their way."
"I know," he wanted to snap back, more to soothe his nerves than anything else, but he repressed the urge and nodded instead.
When the children arrived, still so angry, so confused, so delightfully righteous, Serena with her hair falling into her eyes and Calem with his glasses pulled down onto his face as if to shield him, Lysandre welcomed them with open arms.
Drawing from his desire to see his whole plan through and ensure that he would be its only real victim, he did not falter, even from hearing the hurt and confusion in Serena's voice as he delivered a speech he'd rehearsed long ago. The conviction they could hear in his words, born from a sincerity that he still felt even as he was sabotaging his own efforts, only seemed to further destroy the faith of the children who'd looked up to him and Sycamore for guidance on how to better the world.
As he'd expected, their strength and bonds with their pokémons had only increased out of their burning desire to stop him. When Calem defeated his gyarados, his face distorted into a grimace of anguish and anger, it was all Lysandre could do to stop himself from apologizing.
He let them go.
Shauna's arrival took him by surprise: her eyes full of tears, her small hands clenched into tight fists, demanding answers for what was going on. He didn't want to fight her, he realized, but he couldn't stop her from going after them. She didn't stay long enough for him to improvise another speech, her disappointment already cemented in the way she looked at him as if he was another person, a man so far removed from the one she'd exchanged pleasantries and recipes with that she couldn't even fathom they could have ever been one and the same. He looked away when she left, ignoring the embarrassed gazes of his recruits.
Wasn't that his just deserts, he thought. His only comfort was that, if everything went as he'd planned, he would never have to see Augustine look at him in that way.
In the months prior, he'd spent many of their less romantic afternoons discussing mega-evolution with Augustine. The ring he wore on his finger, circled around the key-stone he'd been gifted, had always been the professor's idea. The conversations he'd had in the evenings with Xerosic were not much different, though they lacked the brand of tension he and Augustine had carefully cultivated. Xerosic was a man of science above all, too busy peering inside machines and scribbling down notes about his research to think about anything else.
Still, Lysandre had cherished these meetings, finding in them a connection to the Xerosic who would never exist: the shadow of his malamar lingering at their side, the way he fidgeted with his goggles when he was nervous or eager or trying to focus, even the fact that, while he seemed to find Lysandre's interest peculiar, he tolerated it in a way that was unlike him. It made Lysandre think of the day they'd met, years ago, when he'd started perusing the region for the most brilliant minds he could find.
They'd worked on a project together. It was Xerosic's idea – and so it made sense that it was Xerosic that he met up with next.
The scientist's exhilaration was oddly communicative. For a second, as he watched him carefully unpack the device, Lysandre could almost forget that this was all for nothing except their own destruction.
"I can't wait to see it in action," Xerosic said in one single breath, moving to help him connect the device to his back quickly. The metal sat uncomfortably against his shoulder blades, even with the fabric underneath, its weight pulling at him like a physical manifestation of the burden he was carrying.
"You shouldn't stay," Lysandre said. The words rang hollow even to his own ears.
"No way, boss," Xerosic retorted with a grin. He picked up one of the cords and connected it to the back of the device. "We've been looking forward to this for so long!"
"Then," Lysandre said, taking hold of Xerosic's arm as he went to grab another cord, "please stay here. I'd rather you watch from this room."
Xerosic frowned.
"If that's where you think you'll need me."
With a short nod, Lysandre let go of his arm. The head scientist connected the rest of the cords in silence, his brow furrowed. Though it couldn't have taken more than a couple of minutes, it felt as if an eternity had passed once he was done and ready to activate the device.
"If something were to happen," Lysandre started, but Xerosic cut him off immediately.
"Nothing can go wrong at this point, we've tested everything so many times." He took hold of his goggles and moved them up by a millimeter, peering at him behind the lens. "Are you... alright?"
The hesitation in his voice, as if he was afraid that his uncharacteristic compassion would be reprimanded, made Lysandre smile despite himself. This only seemed to worry Xerosic further.
"I'm fine," Lysandre said and found that he was. An eerie calmness had settled in his heart, soothing his spirit as he prepared for his final moments. "Please promise me. Xerosic."
"Boss," Xerosic relented with a sigh.
"If something happens, I'll be counting on you to evacuate everyone. Will you do that for me... for us?"
Xerosic pressed his lips together into a line seemingly thinner than Lysandre had ever witnessed. "Of course," he said.
"Thank you." Lysandre smiled at him, beaming with a renewed energy he didn't know he could still summon from within himself.
Before they could say anything else, a booming sound resonated throughout the building. Hurrying back toward the next room, where the glass panel stood to let them see what was going down below, they could only watch as Yveltal spread their wings and let out a powerful screech.
"The children," a scientist yelled somewhere to Lysandre's left, "they woke the beast up!"
There was no denying that Yveltal was indeed a beast, towering above the machine as if it was nothing more than an inconvenience. The span of their wings was so large that it was a wonder the room could even contain them. Lysandre was so captivated that he didn't realize Xerosic had activated the device on his back until he could feel the appendages rise around him, knocking over a grunt who was standing too close.
"Go!" Xerosic said, much more authoritatively than he'd ever heard him speak to him before – but Lysandre was already leaving.
When he put on the visor, the numbers that were blinking in and out took him by surprise. It seemed the children had indeed managed to wake the legendary up before much of its power could be absorbed. This was the plan, of course; yet he hadn't expected it to work quite as perfectly.
He wasted no time reassuring the panicked recruits he ran into as he travelled down toward the children, who he was sure were battling fiercely to contain Yveltal in that moment. He gestured to them to evacuate and didn't stay long enough to see whether they listened or not. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard and fast it was beginning to hurt. He'd experienced this feeling before, but never so positively, never with the conviction that he was running toward the better ending to this story.
When he finally arrived, the room was quiet once more. The children had tamed the beast. They turned toward him with angry, dejected looks in their eyes when he called out to them.
This – this was the last step. The last scene of the last act of this terrible play.
He played it out mechanically, as if in a dream, the gestures and the words coming to him as if he was enacting a part he'd rehearsed over and over. When Shauna looked at him with tears and scorn in her eyes to lecture him about not giving up, when Serena confronted him about his foolishness and unwillingness to step down and acknowledge defeat, when Calem, seemingly rendered speechless by the weight of all that they'd had to process in a few hours, coldly nodded to accept his last challenge to battle... all of it felt like it was happening somewhere else, to someone else he was gleefully watching as they sabotaged themself.
His only moment of fleeting weakness happened as his gyarados mega-evolved: the sudden rush of their bond culminating into a triumphant metamorphosis gave his pokémon a split second to access his heart and mind and see what was in it. Lysandre knew that his companions would outlive him if everything went as expected – surely they'd dig out whatever remains would be left, and he had faith that pokéballs were strong enough to sustain the damage from the blast. His gyarados was unimpressed with that outcome.
That knowledge fueled the pokémon's desire to be victorious.
It did not let them become the victors.
A sort of bleak understanding in Calem's eyes, barely visible from behind the dark shades, brought Lysandre over the edge of his tragic comedy.
His final thought, when the last remnant of energy from the machine fell back into itself, ravaging everything, was that he hoped Xerosic would fulfill his promise.
Then he fell back into the darkness once more.