Alex was a self-proclaimed two city man, with one of those being Fortree and the other being Lilycove. Memo had never wondered why he’d picked those two, aside from the obvious as being the latter’s gym leader, and so he had never asked.

He had a strong feeling that, while this trip was partly for his own benefit, most of it was for Alex’s peace of mind. This was cemented by the lingering presence of the Duskull, whose accompaniment Alex had seemed to begrudgingly accept, if not tolerate.

He kept a gentle but firm presence between Alex and the ghost at all times, though it often hovered higher than his five-foot-four frame could reach. Still, he was there in case anything were to happen, following along quietly as they stopped and bought flowers, then headed into the park.

They came to a stop at the base of the white stone memorial, and Memo waited for Alex to clue him in on what this was all about.

Alexei Ivanov

He was quiet as Alex started talking, but he couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him at strange-ass shit.

“Funnily enough,” he said, softly, “strange-ass shit has been happening since I got here. The entire time I’ve been here. I think it just happens all the time.”

He scanned the memorial for names he might recognize but didn’t find any, allowing Alex to continue his explanation.

Alexei Ivanov

It did make him wonder. What was so special about Hoenn that disastrous, tragic shit just kept happening? It was like a record in a player, doomed to circle forever.

Memo assumed the clown-like thing was Blacephalon. He’d done a quick scan of some of the more recent Hoennian history after he’d gotten affirmed in as a Ranger. He remembered the news stories, though he hadn’t been here for the actual event.

The mention of Littleroot made him stiffen, though he didn’t know if it was the memory of flames dancing in his head, or Alex’s mention of dying.

He felt his anxiety spike.

He wanted to reach out and take Alex’s hands-- wanted that affirming, grounding touch-- but they were busy, so he stuck his in his pockets and waited, respectful.

Alexei Ivanov

He watched Alex stretch up to place the paper crane atop the memorial, like a transient crown. Beautiful and tragic in its impermanence. He listened to him talk about dying-- about people, dying, and then--

“Oh.”

Alexei Ivanov

He laughs, despite himself, at the look on Zelle’s face when Alex proclaims she is nothing like her family. He can relate.

They joke for a second-- his new family, he realizes, with a squeeze of his heart-- before their attention is drawn back to the Duskull. It nudges at the paper crane, to no effect.

Eight of theme came, but only seven returned.

“Oh.”

The weight of it sinks in, shrinks the world to a pindrop.

He does reach out, now, weaving his fingers with Alex’s. A gentle touch, a grounding reminder-- a comfort, hopefully.

“I’m sorry, love.”

It sounds an empty platitude, even when it comes from such a place of strong emotion. But he doesn't have much else to offer.

Alexei Ivanov

The depth of emotion in Alex’s voice when he slips into his native tongue is always a divide, a chasm, so much more so than anything Memo could ever put into words. Whenever it’s a gentle and teasing lapushka or-- or this, obviously spoken with derision, it sets Memo’s bones on fire in more ways than one.

“That’s not-- it’s not your fault, Alex,” he says, trying not to sound exasperated. Why does his love carry such heavy weights? More importantly, why has no one else come forward to tell him this is not his burden to bear?! Memo gets angry, in that moment. He's angry and sad and he wonders if it's maybe the location, some geas in the air.

“There are too many variables to contend with. You said it yourself-- someone else got greedy.”

He squeezes Alex’s hand.

“I’m sure they don’t hate you, love,” he says, unable to stop himself from trying to plug all the holes, soothe all the hurts. “They were probably angry, and grieving. But they shouldn’t hate you.”

Shouldn’t. As though Memo gets to decide that.

Alexei Ivanov

Memo frowned. “If they do hate you, they’re wrong to,” he said, a spirited streak of protection slicing through his voice. If he had to swim out there himself, find them, and drag them back to tell their truth, to stop this from being another of Alex’s festering wounds, he would.

He would do literally anything in his power to stop this man from ever getting hurt again.

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t-- you asked for their help and they gave it.” He was trying not to sound petulant, frustrated-- angry on Alex’s account. “And, yes, it was a big loss and they probably felt pretty powerfully immediately after. But that’s-- you tried your best.”

He was so self-martyring, and it hurt. How dare these mythical, ephemeral, fleeting beings from the deep let him carry this weight by himself for so long?!

“Zelle doesn’t hate you, and that was her family,” he says, trying a different tactic, voice leveling itself out, words carefully chosen, staged. “She obviously has very strong negative feelings towards the correct person.” If the angry hissing was any suggestion, of course.

Alexei Ivanov