[Pokémon Z-A] Piece by Piece
Oct. 29th, 2025 12:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
javert posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
teamflareTitle: Piece by Piece
Fandom: Pokémon Legends Z-A
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre (L)
Rating: G
Summary: L gathers some of the pieces of himself, whether he wants to or not.
Notes: (twirling my hair) HIIIIIII :^) I'm back in the game baybee and going a little bit crazy insane. But anyway. Keeping this short: I love post-canon XY too much to stop writing it LOL so I will probably keep writing non-ZA compliant stuff in the future. But for now I need to write about. All of that. So there it is. There will MOST DEFINITELY be more later. Hope you enjoy this in any case, and thank you tojonphaedrus for the guidance and support 💗
AO3 Link: Here.
The detective was the first to see him. They'd talked before, of course, amidst all the chaos that had befallen Lumiose, yet this was different. She came to him not as a stranger seeking answers, but as an acquaintance who knew more about him than he did.
"You really don't remember him?" she asked, for the second time. They were sitting together on a bench in a secluded corner of the city, watching pidgeys bickering over leftover crumbs. "You were working together for years." She paused, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. "He seemed worried about you on the phone."
L – even now, it was difficult to think of himself using the name that was his – shook his head. "It's as I said. My memories are returning to me in snippets and fragments at a pace I'm afraid I have no control over." Mere days before, he would have stopped at that; right then, he went on, seeing that she seemed distraught by his words, "Perhaps it will come to me soon. What was his name again?"
When she looked up at him, he saw she was granting him the same kind of kindness he was offering her by pretending not to notice his mild disinterest.
"Xerosic," she said. She took out her wallet and once more showed him one of the three pictures she carried there, of a stout man with bright red hair and skin the color of chalk, smiling awkwardly while holding an espurr. "He was with you when... You know."
"So he was," L murmured, as if saying it would bring the memory back, like a wish coming true. "Well. I am glad to know he is in good health, at least."
Her eyes narrowed, and for a swift moment he thought he had offended her, until she let out a short little laugh, almost akin to a hiccup.
"I'll have to tell him that the next time I get a hold of him." She laughed, again, sliding her wallet back into the inner pocket of her coat. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."
He couldn't understand what was so funny about his response, though he'd become accustomed to people reacting strangely to the things he said. Making her laugh was better than upsetting her, he supposed.
"Are you staying in Lumiose?" she asked as soon as it became clear he wasn't going to say anything else to that.
"Not for much longer."
She didn't seem particularly surprised.
"Do you have..." Her last word lingered. She didn't finish her question, instead switching to, "If you need anything, this is my card."
It was a rectangular piece of laminated paper, vaguely beige, with words written on it in capital letters. He brought it up to his face so he could read them.
EMMA MATIÈRE
LOOKER BUREAU, ROUGE SECTOR 5
Beneath them was a number. He considered mentioning he did not own a phone, then thought better of it.
"Emma," he said instead, in an attempt to commit the name to his memory. "Thank you."
She stood up from the bench, scaring off the nearest pidgeys, who flew back toward the safety of the roofs, followed by a swirl of brown and white feathers. Now that she was further away, he couldn't see her expression as well, but her body language remained the same. A little on edge; nothing more.
"Good luck with whatever comes next." He thought maybe she was smiling as she said it. "I hope you'll at least come visit."
He smiled back. "We'll see."
With that, and a wave, she turned and walked out of the alley, leaving him alone to wrestle with the vaguest sensations of a memory. That room, under the café, scarcely lit; a teenager, forced to make a choice.
It weighed on his heart. He let it go.
It made sense, then, that he would meet his next phantom in that very place, chasing the afterimages of his worst moments. She wore a white coat and a strange pair of glasses, and her hair was so bright it almost glowed in the dark. L remembered her name before she even noticed him: Mable.
He could tell the moment she realized who he was, when her fear and surprise upon crossing paths with a tall stranger with a half-hidden face was replaced by cold recognition. He tried to recall anything else, but everything blurred together, flashes of colors and sounds that vibrated against the back of his skull. His mouth was dry. He wished Zygarde was here with him.
"Boss?" Mable said, her voice strained with pain or shock, or a bit of both. She straightened herself upon hearing her own word, echoed back at her in the silence of the building they'd once stood in together, five years ago – a century, as far as he was concerned. "I mean... Lysandre?"
She gestured, perhaps toward him, holding out her hand to touch, and stopped, despite the distance between them that would have prevented her from making contact. Her glasses made her eyes difficult to see.
"Yes," he said, for lack of anything better.
Something about her felt different from when he spoke to those who'd worked for him and remained steadfast in their belief in the things he'd preached prior to his downfall. It wasn't that she'd renounced him, he thought, although he hoped that she had; it was that she knew. She knew, better than anyone else could know, that he'd been wrong, not in spirit, but in method, and that the method had rendered the spirit irrelevant. That made her closer to him than anyone else he'd spoken to in the last few weeks.
From the way she stood, frozen in place, he thought she could feel it, too.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice, this time, did not falter.
He didn't have any reason to lie to her, whether he owed her the truth or not.
"I thought perhaps this place would trigger some more memories."
Mable scoffed. "What for? I was under the impression you weren't staying."
Her change in demeanor felt fake, an act she was putting on to pretend that she didn't care. It struck a familiar chord, though the ensuing sound was so faint he could just barely hear it. Of course, the man he'd once been knew all about hiding behind a mask the same way she was hiding behind the lenses of her glasses.
"Remembering the full extent of my mistakes can only serve to ensure I cannot make them again," L said. He tilted his head to try to see her better, in vain. "That is the reason I tell myself, and it is true, but, in reality, I am also... curious."
In the distance, he could hear the sounds of feet hitting the ground, the soft noises made by houndour and elektrike pups failing to keep up with their parents. He wondered if that was part of why Mable visited the ruins of their old labs: to check on the strays left behind, the offspring of pokémons released in the aftermath of their failure.
"Curious?" Mable repeated. There was less bitterness in her tone.
"About the man I was." L lifted one shoulder in an aborted attempt at a shrug. "The man you're angry at."
It was instantaneous: she gritted her teeth upon hearing the words, and took a step back, almost as if he'd hit her.
"You are that man," she spat, "whether you remember it or not. The only difference is that you're not dead."
He understood, then, that what she resented him for was not failing at their past, foolish mission, nor losing himself in the process; but that he'd only come back to them now, after years they'd spent in disgrace, to save them and then disappear again as if that fixed everything.
It wasn't on purpose, and she knew it, surely, yet that changed very little. As far as she was concerned, he was a ghost, and he didn't even have the decency to haunt her. He barely even remembered her. A footnote in a grander scheme he could only recall the worst parts of.
"I've come out of it fine, you know," she went on. She held her face high as if to dare him to look away. "We all have, somehow. But you..." She paused. Something barked somewhere, in a room further in, where they'd once stood to discuss their plans. "You don't even remember us. Why do you get to reappear and then waltz back out again as if nothing happened?"
Her voice broke, then, her resolute demeanor snapping in half. Watching her fail to put herself back together was what got him to move at last; he stepped toward her, and tentatively reached for her shoulder.
She let him. She didn't resist when he pulled her toward him, either, only buried her face in his chest, the edge of her glasses digging into his sternum. He wrapped one arm around her and thought about how five years was not such a long time when it came to grief.
The ones who still chose to bear the name of the organization that once belonged to him did look for him. Mable confirmed it, though she didn't need to. He didn't want to see them, not because he wished ill of them, but because he wished that they'd wish ill of him instead. Understanding the pain he'd brought to others was one thing; wrestling with those who still believed in those ideals was another, and a very different one at that. He couldn't bring himself to deal with it. Whether that was wise or cowardly, he left up to whoever else decided to judge him.
Shamefully, L remembered the boy the least. It wasn't that he was forgettable – he was certainly among the most colorful characters he'd gotten to meet in the last few weeks – rather that, at the time they'd first met, he was one of many L had rescued, another stray who simply needed the means to be better, to do greater things. The strength of that belief was what stuck most in his memory. The faces of the ones he'd helped were harder to bring back to the forefront of his mind.
The boy didn't seem to care. It was his second-in-command who came to seek L, after hearing that he was in the city, falling back into old habits of wandering and sleeping in the damp darkness of the Lumiose sewers. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.
"You'll always be welcome at the Rust Syndicate," Philippe said, after an awkward but successful attempt to get him to take a shower in their extravagant facilities. "We can provide for you."
L dried the water off his hair with the provided towel, enjoying the coarse texture against his scalp. It did feel nice.
"It's kind of you to offer, albeit unnecessary. I can provide for myself well enough."
From where he was lounging on his couch, Corbeau let out a sharp little cackle.
"Cut the crap, old man. You look like..." He hesitated. He was too far away for L to figure out what he was doing by sight, so he amused himself by imagining him chewing on his words angrily, torn between wanting to be blunt and not wanting to be crass. "Like you've been living it up with your feet dipping in raw sewage. Which you were."
Philippe cleared his throat. "What the boss means is that you don't need to punish yourself by refusing to take care of your basic needs. You know?"
He did know. He simply didn't think of it as punishing himself. That implied intent. Whether he deserved to be taken care of was another story. He'd been under Zygarde's guidance for so long, and it had been fine. He didn't need more than that.
"At least stay for dinner," Philippe added. "It's the least we can do to repay you."
Being stared at by the two kids who'd once relied on him made it difficult to say no. Accepting the generosity of others could be a sign of humility, after all. He nodded.
Corbeau spent the entire meal discussing the things they were doing to better the city and make sure that it remained in order. As far as L could tell, this mostly translated to doing small favors and fixing up minor conflicts, all the while tricking other people into joining their side. It would have been hypocritical of him to say anything about that last part, so he stayed silent, occasionally humming approvingly whenever Corbeau shot him a look.
Regardless of his methods, Corbeau had grown to be a good man, and that was what had mattered to him, back then. The end justifying the means, and so on, and so forth. As long as nobody was getting hurt, he figured it could be chalked up as a necessary evil.
After the desserts, as soon as Philippe left to get them coffee, Corbeau turned toward him, his expression suddenly serious.
"Will you stay in the city for much longer?" he asked. "I know you don't like this, it's just... knowing you're alive... I wish we could have done something earlier."
L smiled at him. The food had been a welcome reprieve from what he was used to eating, which was not much. The sensations, the rich tastes filling his mouth, had brought back memories, good and bad, of previous meals he'd prepared and shared with others. It was that warmth he missed the most, and it felt good to indulge it, even if only for a moment.
"You don't owe me anything," L said. He held his hand when Corbeau opened his mouth to retort, and kept going. "None of you do. Through the work you do for this city, you have paid back whatever debt you think you have."
"Right." Corbeau shook his head. "That doesn't mean you gotta wear rags and sleep in the sewers, though. Like you're some kinda penitent on a pilgrimage."
He hadn't said it unkindly – callously, perhaps, but he hadn't meant it as an insult, or at least L didn't think so – yet something about it stung nonetheless, like his attempts at repentance were self-serving, like he was falling back into old, selfish habits now that Zygarde wasn't there to guide him. L rubbed at his unseeing eye with the ball of his hand.
"Well," he said.
The door opened to let Philippe in, carrying a tray decorated in gold trims, upon which rested three cups of steaming coffee and a pitcher of milk. Corbeau glared at him.
"Our esteemed guest will be staying for the night," he said, once the tray was on the table and Philippe was handing them both a cup. He turned toward L to add, "Isn't that right?"
Something about the stubbornness of youth, a youth raised in a world that didn't want it to succeed, felt akin to a mirror pointed right at him, and made it impossible to refuse. With the grace of a disgraced king, L folded once more.
"Of course," he said, and poured milk in his coffee.
There was no one else who'd want him to stay in Lumiose any longer, save perhaps for the young people staying at Hotel Z, who'd grown fond of him for one reason or another. He didn't like to visit, because the sight of AZ's beloved Floette, floating morosely as she stared at the paintings of herself that her companion had left behind, filled him with a heart-rending sort of melancholy. In a way, it had been thanks to him that they'd been reunited, but it was also thanks to him that they were now apart. Morbidly, he wondered how long it would take for her to let her flower wilt.
Perhaps she wouldn't, for the sake of perpetuating his memory, for the sake of staying to look after the group he'd gathered. Only time would tell.
He'd reached the edge of the courtyard right outside the hotel when the front door opened. A silhouette he didn't recognize came out: a man with dark hair wearing blue, carrying a bag on his shoulder. He froze upon noticing L's presence, but he was too far away for his expression to be in any way decipherable.
Something tugged at the very back of L's memory, part dread and part wonder, that made his heart pound in his ears. For a moment, he thought perhaps he'd fallen ill. He brought his hand up to his chest and waited for it to pass.
The man, meanwhile, did not wait. He walked toward L like he was approaching a wild pokémon prone to fleeing. The door opened again to reveal the silhouettes of Taunie and Lida.
"Lysandre?" the man called out. L's mouth felt impossibly dry, and he didn't know why. "Is that really you?"
L took a step back. He didn't recognize the voice, in the sense that he couldn't remember whose voice it was, yet something within him was reacting instinctively, cold panic spreading through him like poison in his veins.
"Fuck," the man let out, his voice hoarse and tight with emotion. "I'm sorry. I know you don't– I'm sorry. It's really you."
The others were behind him now, and though L couldn't see their faces, he could tell from the way they moved that they, too, were distraught. Briefly, he contemplated running away, but his legs felt heavy, and his heart was beating unbelievably fast.
"Professor," Taunie said. The man had buried his face in his hands at some point, and now that he was closer L could see the tangled mess that was his hair, strands going in every direction with no rhyme or reason. "Are you okay?" She shot a glance toward L. "You two should come inside."
In truth, he didn't want to, because there was something about this man that was affecting him in a way nothing else had. The professor, for his part, ran his sleeve over his face, and retreated into the hotel as instructed.
This was his moment to escape, L thought. He didn't move. Taunie gestured something to Lida that he couldn't see. Right after that, Lida slid back inside the building.
The part of him that was reacting to this man forced his legs to move and walk him toward the entrance. Taunie grimaced at him only once he was close enough to see it, which he silently appreciated.
"Sorry," she said. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
"Who... is he?" L asked, before he could think better of it.
Taunie stared at him for several long seconds before answering, "He's the pokémon professor of Kalos. Well, former, I guess." She shuffled her feet, her discomfort obvious. "He came here to look for you."
"For me?"
She sighed.
"Will you come inside, or not?"
It was kind of her to offer him the option to leave, even knowing she would have to pick up after him. Perhaps that was what made him decide to stay.
Ignoring his own trepidation, L passed the threshold of the hotel. Taunie let the door close behind them, the ensuing sound the only thing breaking the silence.
Paxton, Naveen, and Lida were standing awkwardly in the lounge area right next to the entrance. The professor was the only one sitting. Hunched over, his face in his hands, his bag lying at his feet, he was in such a pitiful state that L could only stare, unable to speak.
"He's the pokémon professor of Kalos," Taunie had said. She hadn't given his name, yet it felt like it was right on the tip of L's tongue, resting right behind his lower teeth, waiting to be freed.
Taunie made her way to her friends, and they started discussing their current situation in hushed whispers that he couldn't quite catch. The professor stayed as he was, his shoulders shaking with every breath.
If he could say the name, L thought, maybe, then...
He wished he could see the man's face. He wished he'd thought to ask Taunie for his name. Why was he looking for him? Why was the sight of him causing him so much upset? He'd done wrong to others, he knew, but this was different. It was grief on a magnitude that even Mable's didn't reach.
There was a watch on the man's right wrist. Something about it was familiar, the contours of a memory blooming in L's mind. His hands holding that watch, putting it back together, sliding it over a wrist he could encircle with his fingers easily. Holding that arm gently, for one second longer than necessary. Basking in the warmth of an easy smile, the corners of pale bluish-grey eyes narrowing with it.
Even though it would change nothing, L opened his second eye.
"Professor," he said. The murmurs he could hear behind him stopped. The man, too, stilled, his shoulders tensed. "Au–Augustine."
His tanned face yet somehow pale, Augustine looked up at him at last. Seeing him from up close felt like staring into the sun, L's own face reflected in those wide pupils as they looked at each other for what seemed like a lifetime.
"Lysandre," Augustine said, the name – L's name – coming out wet with unshed tears. "It's really you."
Right then, nothing else seemed to matter. What he needed was to touch him, if only for a moment, to hold him close. He could barely remember this man, and yet, he knew that some part of him, all the way down to the marrow of his bones, had missed him more than he'd missed anything else in this beautiful world he was trying to save.
Augustine stood up to reach for him, and he let him. L wrapped his hands around his back, pressed his nose to that mess of hair, and breathed in the scent of cigarettes and cheap shampoo, lighting up the sense memory of so many years he'd lost, splashes of colors behind his closed eyes.
A held-out hand there for him to shake. A laugh in a garden basking in the summer glow. A patience beyond anything he'd ever been able to muster. A strong belief: in him, in them, in the world. A trust given in confidence, with confidence. A trust he'd shattered, so blinded by the extent of his disillusionment that he couldn't fathom any other way.
He'd been wrong, on that evening he'd met Mable, to think that she was the one who'd known above all else how wrong he'd been. It was a circular thought. It made his head spin. Only the firm grip he had on Augustine kept him from tumbling over.
"Thank you," Augustine kept repeating, the words lost between them. "Thank you. I couldn't believe it, I didn't believe it–"
There were no words L could find to give back, so he stayed silent, squeezing Augustine a little tighter. His eyes prickled. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been able to cry, if he even had been in the last five years. The sudden rush of emotions he'd been experiencing was proving too much for his weakened body.
Yet Augustine was holding him up. Augustine was helping him stay upright. He was so tired. Perhaps, after everything, he could be allowed to rest, just for a little while.
Something brushed against his hair, and he opened his eye to find Floette looking down at him, her expression a mix of concern and compassion. She held her flower above them like a shield, an umbrella keeping the rain away.
Yes, Lysandre thought. Just for a little while.
Fandom: Pokémon Legends Z-A
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre (L)
Rating: G
Summary: L gathers some of the pieces of himself, whether he wants to or not.
Notes: (twirling my hair) HIIIIIII :^) I'm back in the game baybee and going a little bit crazy insane. But anyway. Keeping this short: I love post-canon XY too much to stop writing it LOL so I will probably keep writing non-ZA compliant stuff in the future. But for now I need to write about. All of that. So there it is. There will MOST DEFINITELY be more later. Hope you enjoy this in any case, and thank you to
jonphaedrus for the guidance and support 💗AO3 Link: Here.
The detective was the first to see him. They'd talked before, of course, amidst all the chaos that had befallen Lumiose, yet this was different. She came to him not as a stranger seeking answers, but as an acquaintance who knew more about him than he did.
"You really don't remember him?" she asked, for the second time. They were sitting together on a bench in a secluded corner of the city, watching pidgeys bickering over leftover crumbs. "You were working together for years." She paused, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. "He seemed worried about you on the phone."
L – even now, it was difficult to think of himself using the name that was his – shook his head. "It's as I said. My memories are returning to me in snippets and fragments at a pace I'm afraid I have no control over." Mere days before, he would have stopped at that; right then, he went on, seeing that she seemed distraught by his words, "Perhaps it will come to me soon. What was his name again?"
When she looked up at him, he saw she was granting him the same kind of kindness he was offering her by pretending not to notice his mild disinterest.
"Xerosic," she said. She took out her wallet and once more showed him one of the three pictures she carried there, of a stout man with bright red hair and skin the color of chalk, smiling awkwardly while holding an espurr. "He was with you when... You know."
"So he was," L murmured, as if saying it would bring the memory back, like a wish coming true. "Well. I am glad to know he is in good health, at least."
Her eyes narrowed, and for a swift moment he thought he had offended her, until she let out a short little laugh, almost akin to a hiccup.
"I'll have to tell him that the next time I get a hold of him." She laughed, again, sliding her wallet back into the inner pocket of her coat. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."
He couldn't understand what was so funny about his response, though he'd become accustomed to people reacting strangely to the things he said. Making her laugh was better than upsetting her, he supposed.
"Are you staying in Lumiose?" she asked as soon as it became clear he wasn't going to say anything else to that.
"Not for much longer."
She didn't seem particularly surprised.
"Do you have..." Her last word lingered. She didn't finish her question, instead switching to, "If you need anything, this is my card."
It was a rectangular piece of laminated paper, vaguely beige, with words written on it in capital letters. He brought it up to his face so he could read them.
LOOKER BUREAU, ROUGE SECTOR 5
Beneath them was a number. He considered mentioning he did not own a phone, then thought better of it.
"Emma," he said instead, in an attempt to commit the name to his memory. "Thank you."
She stood up from the bench, scaring off the nearest pidgeys, who flew back toward the safety of the roofs, followed by a swirl of brown and white feathers. Now that she was further away, he couldn't see her expression as well, but her body language remained the same. A little on edge; nothing more.
"Good luck with whatever comes next." He thought maybe she was smiling as she said it. "I hope you'll at least come visit."
He smiled back. "We'll see."
With that, and a wave, she turned and walked out of the alley, leaving him alone to wrestle with the vaguest sensations of a memory. That room, under the café, scarcely lit; a teenager, forced to make a choice.
It weighed on his heart. He let it go.
It made sense, then, that he would meet his next phantom in that very place, chasing the afterimages of his worst moments. She wore a white coat and a strange pair of glasses, and her hair was so bright it almost glowed in the dark. L remembered her name before she even noticed him: Mable.
He could tell the moment she realized who he was, when her fear and surprise upon crossing paths with a tall stranger with a half-hidden face was replaced by cold recognition. He tried to recall anything else, but everything blurred together, flashes of colors and sounds that vibrated against the back of his skull. His mouth was dry. He wished Zygarde was here with him.
"Boss?" Mable said, her voice strained with pain or shock, or a bit of both. She straightened herself upon hearing her own word, echoed back at her in the silence of the building they'd once stood in together, five years ago – a century, as far as he was concerned. "I mean... Lysandre?"
She gestured, perhaps toward him, holding out her hand to touch, and stopped, despite the distance between them that would have prevented her from making contact. Her glasses made her eyes difficult to see.
"Yes," he said, for lack of anything better.
Something about her felt different from when he spoke to those who'd worked for him and remained steadfast in their belief in the things he'd preached prior to his downfall. It wasn't that she'd renounced him, he thought, although he hoped that she had; it was that she knew. She knew, better than anyone else could know, that he'd been wrong, not in spirit, but in method, and that the method had rendered the spirit irrelevant. That made her closer to him than anyone else he'd spoken to in the last few weeks.
From the way she stood, frozen in place, he thought she could feel it, too.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice, this time, did not falter.
He didn't have any reason to lie to her, whether he owed her the truth or not.
"I thought perhaps this place would trigger some more memories."
Mable scoffed. "What for? I was under the impression you weren't staying."
Her change in demeanor felt fake, an act she was putting on to pretend that she didn't care. It struck a familiar chord, though the ensuing sound was so faint he could just barely hear it. Of course, the man he'd once been knew all about hiding behind a mask the same way she was hiding behind the lenses of her glasses.
"Remembering the full extent of my mistakes can only serve to ensure I cannot make them again," L said. He tilted his head to try to see her better, in vain. "That is the reason I tell myself, and it is true, but, in reality, I am also... curious."
In the distance, he could hear the sounds of feet hitting the ground, the soft noises made by houndour and elektrike pups failing to keep up with their parents. He wondered if that was part of why Mable visited the ruins of their old labs: to check on the strays left behind, the offspring of pokémons released in the aftermath of their failure.
"Curious?" Mable repeated. There was less bitterness in her tone.
"About the man I was." L lifted one shoulder in an aborted attempt at a shrug. "The man you're angry at."
It was instantaneous: she gritted her teeth upon hearing the words, and took a step back, almost as if he'd hit her.
"You are that man," she spat, "whether you remember it or not. The only difference is that you're not dead."
He understood, then, that what she resented him for was not failing at their past, foolish mission, nor losing himself in the process; but that he'd only come back to them now, after years they'd spent in disgrace, to save them and then disappear again as if that fixed everything.
It wasn't on purpose, and she knew it, surely, yet that changed very little. As far as she was concerned, he was a ghost, and he didn't even have the decency to haunt her. He barely even remembered her. A footnote in a grander scheme he could only recall the worst parts of.
"I've come out of it fine, you know," she went on. She held her face high as if to dare him to look away. "We all have, somehow. But you..." She paused. Something barked somewhere, in a room further in, where they'd once stood to discuss their plans. "You don't even remember us. Why do you get to reappear and then waltz back out again as if nothing happened?"
Her voice broke, then, her resolute demeanor snapping in half. Watching her fail to put herself back together was what got him to move at last; he stepped toward her, and tentatively reached for her shoulder.
She let him. She didn't resist when he pulled her toward him, either, only buried her face in his chest, the edge of her glasses digging into his sternum. He wrapped one arm around her and thought about how five years was not such a long time when it came to grief.
The ones who still chose to bear the name of the organization that once belonged to him did look for him. Mable confirmed it, though she didn't need to. He didn't want to see them, not because he wished ill of them, but because he wished that they'd wish ill of him instead. Understanding the pain he'd brought to others was one thing; wrestling with those who still believed in those ideals was another, and a very different one at that. He couldn't bring himself to deal with it. Whether that was wise or cowardly, he left up to whoever else decided to judge him.
Shamefully, L remembered the boy the least. It wasn't that he was forgettable – he was certainly among the most colorful characters he'd gotten to meet in the last few weeks – rather that, at the time they'd first met, he was one of many L had rescued, another stray who simply needed the means to be better, to do greater things. The strength of that belief was what stuck most in his memory. The faces of the ones he'd helped were harder to bring back to the forefront of his mind.
The boy didn't seem to care. It was his second-in-command who came to seek L, after hearing that he was in the city, falling back into old habits of wandering and sleeping in the damp darkness of the Lumiose sewers. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.
"You'll always be welcome at the Rust Syndicate," Philippe said, after an awkward but successful attempt to get him to take a shower in their extravagant facilities. "We can provide for you."
L dried the water off his hair with the provided towel, enjoying the coarse texture against his scalp. It did feel nice.
"It's kind of you to offer, albeit unnecessary. I can provide for myself well enough."
From where he was lounging on his couch, Corbeau let out a sharp little cackle.
"Cut the crap, old man. You look like..." He hesitated. He was too far away for L to figure out what he was doing by sight, so he amused himself by imagining him chewing on his words angrily, torn between wanting to be blunt and not wanting to be crass. "Like you've been living it up with your feet dipping in raw sewage. Which you were."
Philippe cleared his throat. "What the boss means is that you don't need to punish yourself by refusing to take care of your basic needs. You know?"
He did know. He simply didn't think of it as punishing himself. That implied intent. Whether he deserved to be taken care of was another story. He'd been under Zygarde's guidance for so long, and it had been fine. He didn't need more than that.
"At least stay for dinner," Philippe added. "It's the least we can do to repay you."
Being stared at by the two kids who'd once relied on him made it difficult to say no. Accepting the generosity of others could be a sign of humility, after all. He nodded.
Corbeau spent the entire meal discussing the things they were doing to better the city and make sure that it remained in order. As far as L could tell, this mostly translated to doing small favors and fixing up minor conflicts, all the while tricking other people into joining their side. It would have been hypocritical of him to say anything about that last part, so he stayed silent, occasionally humming approvingly whenever Corbeau shot him a look.
Regardless of his methods, Corbeau had grown to be a good man, and that was what had mattered to him, back then. The end justifying the means, and so on, and so forth. As long as nobody was getting hurt, he figured it could be chalked up as a necessary evil.
After the desserts, as soon as Philippe left to get them coffee, Corbeau turned toward him, his expression suddenly serious.
"Will you stay in the city for much longer?" he asked. "I know you don't like this, it's just... knowing you're alive... I wish we could have done something earlier."
L smiled at him. The food had been a welcome reprieve from what he was used to eating, which was not much. The sensations, the rich tastes filling his mouth, had brought back memories, good and bad, of previous meals he'd prepared and shared with others. It was that warmth he missed the most, and it felt good to indulge it, even if only for a moment.
"You don't owe me anything," L said. He held his hand when Corbeau opened his mouth to retort, and kept going. "None of you do. Through the work you do for this city, you have paid back whatever debt you think you have."
"Right." Corbeau shook his head. "That doesn't mean you gotta wear rags and sleep in the sewers, though. Like you're some kinda penitent on a pilgrimage."
He hadn't said it unkindly – callously, perhaps, but he hadn't meant it as an insult, or at least L didn't think so – yet something about it stung nonetheless, like his attempts at repentance were self-serving, like he was falling back into old, selfish habits now that Zygarde wasn't there to guide him. L rubbed at his unseeing eye with the ball of his hand.
"Well," he said.
The door opened to let Philippe in, carrying a tray decorated in gold trims, upon which rested three cups of steaming coffee and a pitcher of milk. Corbeau glared at him.
"Our esteemed guest will be staying for the night," he said, once the tray was on the table and Philippe was handing them both a cup. He turned toward L to add, "Isn't that right?"
Something about the stubbornness of youth, a youth raised in a world that didn't want it to succeed, felt akin to a mirror pointed right at him, and made it impossible to refuse. With the grace of a disgraced king, L folded once more.
"Of course," he said, and poured milk in his coffee.
There was no one else who'd want him to stay in Lumiose any longer, save perhaps for the young people staying at Hotel Z, who'd grown fond of him for one reason or another. He didn't like to visit, because the sight of AZ's beloved Floette, floating morosely as she stared at the paintings of herself that her companion had left behind, filled him with a heart-rending sort of melancholy. In a way, it had been thanks to him that they'd been reunited, but it was also thanks to him that they were now apart. Morbidly, he wondered how long it would take for her to let her flower wilt.
Perhaps she wouldn't, for the sake of perpetuating his memory, for the sake of staying to look after the group he'd gathered. Only time would tell.
He'd reached the edge of the courtyard right outside the hotel when the front door opened. A silhouette he didn't recognize came out: a man with dark hair wearing blue, carrying a bag on his shoulder. He froze upon noticing L's presence, but he was too far away for his expression to be in any way decipherable.
Something tugged at the very back of L's memory, part dread and part wonder, that made his heart pound in his ears. For a moment, he thought perhaps he'd fallen ill. He brought his hand up to his chest and waited for it to pass.
The man, meanwhile, did not wait. He walked toward L like he was approaching a wild pokémon prone to fleeing. The door opened again to reveal the silhouettes of Taunie and Lida.
"Lysandre?" the man called out. L's mouth felt impossibly dry, and he didn't know why. "Is that really you?"
L took a step back. He didn't recognize the voice, in the sense that he couldn't remember whose voice it was, yet something within him was reacting instinctively, cold panic spreading through him like poison in his veins.
"Fuck," the man let out, his voice hoarse and tight with emotion. "I'm sorry. I know you don't– I'm sorry. It's really you."
The others were behind him now, and though L couldn't see their faces, he could tell from the way they moved that they, too, were distraught. Briefly, he contemplated running away, but his legs felt heavy, and his heart was beating unbelievably fast.
"Professor," Taunie said. The man had buried his face in his hands at some point, and now that he was closer L could see the tangled mess that was his hair, strands going in every direction with no rhyme or reason. "Are you okay?" She shot a glance toward L. "You two should come inside."
In truth, he didn't want to, because there was something about this man that was affecting him in a way nothing else had. The professor, for his part, ran his sleeve over his face, and retreated into the hotel as instructed.
This was his moment to escape, L thought. He didn't move. Taunie gestured something to Lida that he couldn't see. Right after that, Lida slid back inside the building.
The part of him that was reacting to this man forced his legs to move and walk him toward the entrance. Taunie grimaced at him only once he was close enough to see it, which he silently appreciated.
"Sorry," she said. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
"Who... is he?" L asked, before he could think better of it.
Taunie stared at him for several long seconds before answering, "He's the pokémon professor of Kalos. Well, former, I guess." She shuffled her feet, her discomfort obvious. "He came here to look for you."
"For me?"
She sighed.
"Will you come inside, or not?"
It was kind of her to offer him the option to leave, even knowing she would have to pick up after him. Perhaps that was what made him decide to stay.
Ignoring his own trepidation, L passed the threshold of the hotel. Taunie let the door close behind them, the ensuing sound the only thing breaking the silence.
Paxton, Naveen, and Lida were standing awkwardly in the lounge area right next to the entrance. The professor was the only one sitting. Hunched over, his face in his hands, his bag lying at his feet, he was in such a pitiful state that L could only stare, unable to speak.
"He's the pokémon professor of Kalos," Taunie had said. She hadn't given his name, yet it felt like it was right on the tip of L's tongue, resting right behind his lower teeth, waiting to be freed.
Taunie made her way to her friends, and they started discussing their current situation in hushed whispers that he couldn't quite catch. The professor stayed as he was, his shoulders shaking with every breath.
If he could say the name, L thought, maybe, then...
He wished he could see the man's face. He wished he'd thought to ask Taunie for his name. Why was he looking for him? Why was the sight of him causing him so much upset? He'd done wrong to others, he knew, but this was different. It was grief on a magnitude that even Mable's didn't reach.
There was a watch on the man's right wrist. Something about it was familiar, the contours of a memory blooming in L's mind. His hands holding that watch, putting it back together, sliding it over a wrist he could encircle with his fingers easily. Holding that arm gently, for one second longer than necessary. Basking in the warmth of an easy smile, the corners of pale bluish-grey eyes narrowing with it.
Even though it would change nothing, L opened his second eye.
"Professor," he said. The murmurs he could hear behind him stopped. The man, too, stilled, his shoulders tensed. "Au–Augustine."
His tanned face yet somehow pale, Augustine looked up at him at last. Seeing him from up close felt like staring into the sun, L's own face reflected in those wide pupils as they looked at each other for what seemed like a lifetime.
"Lysandre," Augustine said, the name – L's name – coming out wet with unshed tears. "It's really you."
Right then, nothing else seemed to matter. What he needed was to touch him, if only for a moment, to hold him close. He could barely remember this man, and yet, he knew that some part of him, all the way down to the marrow of his bones, had missed him more than he'd missed anything else in this beautiful world he was trying to save.
Augustine stood up to reach for him, and he let him. L wrapped his hands around his back, pressed his nose to that mess of hair, and breathed in the scent of cigarettes and cheap shampoo, lighting up the sense memory of so many years he'd lost, splashes of colors behind his closed eyes.
A held-out hand there for him to shake. A laugh in a garden basking in the summer glow. A patience beyond anything he'd ever been able to muster. A strong belief: in him, in them, in the world. A trust given in confidence, with confidence. A trust he'd shattered, so blinded by the extent of his disillusionment that he couldn't fathom any other way.
He'd been wrong, on that evening he'd met Mable, to think that she was the one who'd known above all else how wrong he'd been. It was a circular thought. It made his head spin. Only the firm grip he had on Augustine kept him from tumbling over.
"Thank you," Augustine kept repeating, the words lost between them. "Thank you. I couldn't believe it, I didn't believe it–"
There were no words L could find to give back, so he stayed silent, squeezing Augustine a little tighter. His eyes prickled. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been able to cry, if he even had been in the last five years. The sudden rush of emotions he'd been experiencing was proving too much for his weakened body.
Yet Augustine was holding him up. Augustine was helping him stay upright. He was so tired. Perhaps, after everything, he could be allowed to rest, just for a little while.
Something brushed against his hair, and he opened his eye to find Floette looking down at him, her expression a mix of concern and compassion. She held her flower above them like a shield, an umbrella keeping the rain away.
Yes, Lysandre thought. Just for a little while.