Orion hated Lilycove.

There were memories around every corner, and so few of them pleasant. Yet here he was, because the commute to Lilycove was quicker than the one to Slateport and besides, it wasn't like his experiences with Slateport were pleasant, either.

He ducks into the quaint little café on his lunch break and tries very, very hard not to think about his parents, or his brothers, or of Kyogre rising from the deep. It's quiet here, but there's a song playing faintly that he can just about focus on if he tries. With a berry-blend smoothie held delicately in one hand and his laptop tucked under the other arm, Orion surveys the room in search of somewhere isolated to sit where he won't be recognized, preferably away from the windows so that he doesn't have to squint at each passing car and wonder if it contains a member of the well-respected Sakurai family.

His sweeping scan of the space halts on a somehow familiar, very attractive young gentleman and — sticks there, regrettably, because oh no, he's hot but also where have I seen him before?

His cheeks turn a noticeable shade of pink when he inevitably locks eyes with the stranger, and the furiously blushing councilman hurries to the nearest table as if to pretend that he hadn't just been caught staring at Cyril Alarie: famous Kalosian model.

Lilycove was the worst.

Before the heat has had time to disperse from his cheeks, Orion's plans for a peaceful, solitary lunch are dashed against the daring boldness of one @cyril.

Caught entirely off-guard, his thoughts derailed by a particular word — handsome? — the councilman opens his mouth, stares, then abruptly closes it. Like a deer in headlights, he feels trapped by Cyril's stare, wanting desperately to look away and yet scrambling to not appear rude because Cyril-fucking-Alarie had just called him handsome—

"I-I—" His first genuine attempt to speak is cut off when he stammers, and he reflexively presses his lips together, breathes. He'd taken PR lessons for his position. Speak clearly, feign confidence. He tries again. "I'm sorry, you — ah, you caught me off guard." Not much better, but he stumbles forward. "I'm on my break, I come here pretty often — it's, quiet, and all, and the drinks are pretty good—"

Orion stops himself for the umpteenth time and lets out an awkward chuckle. He's flirting, idiot, he doesn't care about the café.

Shame Orion doesn't know how to flirt back.

It is him.

As if there had been any doubt; Orion would never admit to it, but he owned at least one magazine whose cover featured the famous blond. The thought of it does little to calm his nerves.

Had @cyril really just asked him out for drinks?

"Oh! Um, sure." Did that sound non-committal? Too quickly, Orion amends, "I-I mean, yes, I'd love to, that sounds — I'd love to." He looks down reflexively, studies a flaw in the tabletop before looking up at the younger man through dark lashes, his shy smile edged with hopefulness. "I'm Orion."

His heart flutters like a giddy schoolgirl's when he hears the word date, fresh colour rising in his cheeks to betray him. He doesn't know whether he feels more anxiety or excitement. The end result is the same: pulse racing, breath caught, stomach sick. It was a good thing he was sitting down.

And just as quick as it had started, their chance encounter is over.

"O-Oh," he says, surprised, still recovering from d-a-t-e. "Okay, um, take care."

Arceus, he was terrible at this. He'd be fretting over it for weeks. Maybe years.

@cyril would glance over his shoulder to see Orion staring after him in wonder and disbelief, quickly turning pink and looking away the moment he realises he's been caught. He isn't wrong: Orion is absolutely, hopelessly hooked.