There was a reason (well, several) why he avoided the beach. First of all being… the water.

The longer he stared at the deep blue, the more he’d panic and try not to scream and try not to hyperventilate until—

He shook his head and realized that he was at, of all places, Slateport Beach.

How’d he get himself to come out here in the first place? He normally stayed in Fortree—only venturing out to Lilycove when he had to go on a supply run.

What did it cost Memo? Everything!

“At…at least it’s not so hot out,” he remarked with a sigh of relief. Having what he called ‘cursed blood’ opened him up to a slew of other complications, another one of which was a slight case of albinism.

“Haven’t you wondered why I don’t go out in the sun as often as you do…” he trailed off, before the hairs on the back of his neck stood up—what was up with that big-ass fish?!

“And… and why’m I getting some kind of… you know, vibe from your fish?!” he squealed as he very, very hesitantly approached.

It was like he had a ‘Spidey sense’, only instead of incoming danger his version could hilariously sense when a ‘G’ was nearby Ghost-type if we want to be as specific as possible.

“Can’t we fly there instead?” he almost whined, biting his lip because holy hell he was not going to wade out that far into the water.

It was too scary, okay?!

What if there were giant tentacles hiding under the surf and his mind was going into overdrive again—

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“Nope,” he agrees, more chipper than he planned but unable to hide the excitement he was feeling. He honestly felt like he was floating on air. Something about this-- doing weirdly domestic, familiar things, in public, with the person he cared the most for, was just-- exhilarating. “It’ll be nice and cool, and we’ll have the breeze. Aaaand we’ll get to watch the sunset. It’s gorgeous.”
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There it was, the pushback. Alex was, of many his many greats, a chronic worrier, and a creature of habit. Deep habit, one of which being he avoided his chronic worries like the plague. Memo waggled his fingers, and Titanic shifted her midsection, using her fins to pull herself even further up on shore.
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“We won’t even be in the sun at all, promise,” he said, voice only hinting at the tiniest bit of pleading. He couldn’t hide the pout that pulled at the edges of his lips.
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But Alex also trusted him, and that was key here. No matter how much coaxing it took.
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“We don’t need to fly,” he said-- and Titanic had wriggled so far up in the shallows Memo could put a foot down and touch, which was saying something because he was, y’know, short, “it’ll take two minutes, tops. We’ll go nice and slow. Pleeeeaaaase?”

There was still something that was wigging him out over the gigantic… sea mount, let’s go with that—the sea mount that Memo had literally thrown himself on without even blinking.

“What—what if we tip over?!” he continued in the same squeaky tone, unable to believe that something could take his weight… it was just—inconceivable.

At least the lure of not being in the sun was—it was there, it was promising, he wasn’t going to need to apply enough sunblock to cook under the heat of the sun.

Ah, the bane of having the touchy kind of albinism that caused him to shrivel up easily when exposed to the sun for too long.

“Are—are you sure your fish isn’t going to knock us over?!” he went on, very slowly approaching the ‘Aladdin’ who was waiting on the ‘magic carpet’—only in this instance the ‘magic carpet’ was giving him the fucking heebie-jeebies no matter how many times he tried to take another look at the situation.

“The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up! I-I-I-I have goosebumps!” he wailed, showing the other the chicken-like phenomenon on his exposed arm.

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He was trying not to laugh, he really was, but Alex’s fretting was just so adorable, god damn it.
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God, he was so cute.
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“We won’t tip over,” Memo assured him, with just the tiniest hint, the smallest sniff, of a laugh. “She’s a ten foot long fish, Alex. Gabriel’s only five feet long, and he carries you, doesn’t he?”
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Check, meet mate.
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Closer, closer still… so close…
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“Oh,” Memo tisked, brow furrowing, “you and your-- ghost-dar. Won’t you just trust me?”
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Titanic’s sad lidded eye rolled skyward, as if to say lord help me.

“Look, Gabe’s more than five feet long but he’s a familiar presence,” he insisted, the G-dar still going off like mad.

“He grew up around me and Kyouya, so the three of us know each other’s presence, but… really? Why is she scaring me?!”

He’d drawn out the last part—this was why his g-dar (ghost-dar) was almost always right. There was only a 1% time it failed. But he wasn’t going to tell the other that.

“And your fish just sassed me! She sassed me!” he continued, pointing at the very pointed eye roll he’d seen. “She rolled her eyes at me!”

Oh, why did it have to be him?

“I swear, Memo…” he said at last, heaving a very heavy sigh as he slipped into Russian, the foreign mutterings nonsense to Memo’s ears as he very slowly, extremely reluctantly swung one foot over the back of the… fish.

He still couldn’t shake off the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck were still prickling up, warning him that there was something amiss.

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He supposed the jig was up; he bit back a sigh and tried not to let his shoulders sag in disappointment. “She’s scaring you because she’s part Ghost-type, Alex, and you, for some reason, have a built in Ghost sensor,” he explained-- but his tone wasn’t harsh, just explanatory, and the slightest bit admirable, like everything about Alex-- even these infuriating parts-- was amazing.
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Because it was.
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“But she’s not-- she’s not a ghost like Shiv is,” he says, pressing forward, unable to admit the battle was lost, “she’s mostly just a fish. She can’t go invisible or-- or cast curses and she’s not a haunted doll or haunted teacup or anything like that.” She’s mostly just sad, he wanted to say, but left that part out.
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“I swear, yourself,” he said, pouting. “I wouldn’t willingly lead you into danger. You do know that, right?”
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At the sass part, Memo blinked, looking down. “Well, yes, she’s probably drying out a bit. Because we’re literally sitting on the sand, and she’s a fish.”

He knew it.

He fucking knew it!

“I-I-I-I-I just… d-d-d-d-d-d-do,” he stammered as he was seated now, on the fish, and he was trying his hardest not to lock up or go into shutdown mode and faint on him. After all, he did want to see where they were going to be spending the… evening.

Together.

“I-I-I swear, if I see… if I see little h-h-h-h-h-haunted lights following us…” he continued as his voice had wound itself up again, because what else was there?!

“You…you better keep your word,” he muttered as he waited for the other to take them away to their doom to wherever they were going to head out to.

And for the record? He wasn’t going to look until they got to their destination, so here comes the vicegrip on your waist, Memo!

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Slowly, ever so slowly, like water wearing away at rock, like-- like the friggin’ glaciers, Alex slipped his leg over Titanic’s back; he hovered for a second before lowering himself into a seat. Memo could feel him shaking, felt a twinge of regret, but how else was Alex going to face his fears?
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Slowly, that’s how. He was going to do it slowly.
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“See, that’s not so bad,” Memo said, hopping back onto Titanic, who began to wiggle her tail end to get them back out to sea. He had exactly .02 seconds to breathe before Alex’s arms cinched around his waist, tighter than any seatbelt, but Memo was grinning like an idiot. He rested his arm over Alex’s, the waves jostling them ever so lightly, as he leaned his head back against Alex’s chest, and looked up.
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“Thank you,” he said, earnest and genuine and so full of emotion he could burst. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.”
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With some more pushing of wet sand, Titanic escaped into water deep enough so she didn’t drag along the beach. She surged forward into the surf, splashing seawater over her head, before settling into an easy, steady pace, gliding through the indigo waters quickly turning purple with the setting of the sun.
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She cut a quick swathe in a scythe-shaped curve to the left, along a ridgeline of worn away rock and crumbled boulders; the face of the mountain was beautiful, cut through with pink and purple, black and red; of course, Alex’s eyes were shut, so he wouldn’t see all the glittering, glimmering crystals, agate, clay, and onyx.
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Every now and then a wave rushed upon them with enough force to splash, but other than that, it was a quick journey.
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Around the curve of the cliff, there was a swoop cut out of the rock face; sand had been pushed up to make a little beach, completely covered by a tall ceiling of granite. A natural breakwater of rocks formed a semi-circle out in front of the beach, calming the surf and making it little more than gentle, back-and-forth laps at the soft, white sand. Titanic docked herself once more with powerful pushes of her strong tail, and Memo hopped off, took Alex’s hand, and said, “You can open your eyes, now,” with just the hint of a laugh.
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The inside of the cove was a rainbow of hues, purple and pink, red and white, black and gray, shimmering with mineral deposits; the water over the white sand was a crystal clear blue, enabling them to see the myriad colors of shells and pebbles beneath, smoothed and soothed by the push and pull of the water.
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The cave opening was bright with the last rays of sun, a perfect view of the sunset over the water, blood orange and vibrant yellows, lavender and gray. There were two fold-up beach chairs with a wicker basket between them, sitting by a small, smoking fire, the flame recently gone out. Towels and soft, fluffy blankets were stacked on each chair.
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“See?” Memo said, excitement crackling in his voice as he spread his arms wide and gestured to all his hard work.
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A small, white rock, sitting by the fire, slowly sat up and ambled over, eyes downcast. Memo crouched down and gave the Corsola a loving pat.
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“Thanks for watching everything, Sy,” he said. “If you wanna go swimming now, you can.”
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The Corsola heaved, as though sighing, and slowly waddled into the water, allowing the current to lift him up and take him further out to sea.

“Y-y-y-y-you better…” he continued with the same squeaky voice as he hung on for dear deer fucking life as they went through the water. He didn’t want to open his eyes—at least until the sea mount they were riding came to a stop at their destina—

The place was absolutely beautiful.

He could only stare at the little cove, illuminated by the light of the setting sun as it sank beneath the horizon—

Everything sparkled like a castle of precious stones, and for a few moments he was speechless. Literally speechless.

However, his look of amazement became one of surprise—and shock—the moment he saw a white rock come to life, trundling towards Memo—and he let out a shriek.

“Wha-wha-wha-wha-wha-what is THAT?!” he blurted out at the sight of the… well, it looked like a Corsola, but…

“Aren’t… aren’t Corsola supposed to be… pink? And… their horns aren’t THAT big?!”

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“That?” Memo asked, still crouched, pointing at the receding back of his Corsola as he disappeared into the water. “That’s Silas. He was my first Pokemon partner.”
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He hopped up and beckoned Alex over, flapping out a towel and smoothing it over one of the chairs. “I packed us a picnic. I hope you’re okay with champagne.”
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But Alex was still going on about Silas.
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“All the Corsola in the Galar region are dead,” he said as though it was the simplest thing in the world-- and for him, it was. That was what he was raised with. He didn't see a vibrant, rosy, living Corsola till he got to Hoenn.

“What?”

That was the first thing out of his mouth.

“How—” he continued to stammer, but seeing that the other had gone through so much in order to get the cozy little cove set up, he’d let the matter drop. For now.

Besides, they still had a sunset to enjoy.

Plus the mention of food made him hyperfocus on that instead, so… nicely done, Memo.

“Ooh, what’d you make this time?” he went on, settling down on one of the two chairs and watching, waiting for Memo to start bringing out the good stuff.

“And I don’t mind champagne. Although forgive me if my brain starts thinking like a bartender again, because honestly not much can be done with champagne asides from pairing it with certain foods,” he added with a chuckle.

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“Yeah,” he says, opening the picnic basket, not looking up from what he was doing. “Pollution. Some climate change.” He shrugs.
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“It’s good champagne, though. Not everything has to be mixed six ways from Sunday.” Half of the basket is an ice chest. There are two different kinds of champagne-- Alex would probably know the difference but, to Memo, one was pink and was paired with dessert and the other one was… normal champagne color? And went with savory things.
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The other half consisted of wrapped sandwiches of various lunch meat varieties and take-out containers. Various veggies with hummus, chicken salad with apricots and celery, a few different kinds of fancy cheeses; strawberries in cream, chocolate chip cookies, and a savory brie and french onion tart that had taken him, like, six hours to make.
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“Pick your poison,” he said, running through the list of everything he’d brought, sitting cross-legged on the beach chair opposite of Alex. “I… may have brought too much.”

“You call this too much?”

He blinked.

“How is this too much to you? C’mon, we have to live a little!”

There was something that caught his eye—

“I see the salad made a return,” he chuckled as he pulled out that container first. “Although it doesn’t look like there’s a spicy sauce with this one now.”

The sandwiches were making his mouth water, but what really got his attention was the—

“These,” he began as he pulled out one of the tarts and gently squished it between his fingers, “…are just the right amount of squish.”

Without blinking he took a very big bite from the tart, and tasted onions and—

“Holy fucking shit, is this… brie?!”