eyes turned up peer at the serif font of the overhanging signage, watching the lights play across the tables in the exterior seating area, nagi thinks: symon's friends must be very fond of him.[break][break]

this is way more than nice-ish.[break][break]

maybe it is his fault that he doesn’t own anything outside of hoodies and slacks (all ancient); that his idea of nice-ish food is anything requiring more effort than reheating jarred pasta sauce. it's definitely his fault for not checking the dress code. whatever the case, for the second time since he set foot in hoenn, nagi finds himself standing outside of a fine dining establishment, feeling painfully and sorely underdressed. [break][break]

but you don’t expose yourself to the psychoanalytic shitshow of publishing your writing online without developing some thick skin. nagi tips his chin up, folds the frayed hem of his hoodie inwards — pets the front pocket to make sure the parcel hasn't fallen out — and steps in through the entryway. [break][break]

symon cuts an unmistakable figure, even dressed down. or dressed up, considering the last time they'd met symon had been in beachwear. nagi's expression softens when he sees him; the purse of his mouth and tense set of his brow loosening as the rubber soles of his sneaker squeak against the polished marble tile. [break][break]

"happy birthday," he says, when he draws close enough. his voice is low — settled in its usual quiet monotone — but warm.

[break][break]

[attr="class","ooc"] @symon [break]


[attr="class","pkspr pkmn-litwick"]

"you, too. thanks for inviting me."[break][break]

it should be surprising, how much he means it — he had never been the type to build attachments quickly; never been an easy friend to make or keep. but the blistering heat blanketing the deserted island had proven to be as good as icebreaker as any. it helps that he knows he can trust symon with his life, at least insofar as coconuts are concerned. [break][break]

he settles down on the seat, reaching for the menu to keep his fidgeting fingers occupied — embossed cover, curling cursive font, kalosian scattered across the menu items. nagi’s kalosian. he’s got this. he flips to the page labelled “sandwiches”.[break][break]

“we'll eat a hole through their pockets,” he says, looking up from the menu splayed open at the edge of the table just in time to see the grin break out, effervescent over symon’s face. like a spotlight, or a small star, ninety lumens per watt of radiant flux beaming in nagi’s direction, making him squint on instinct. [break][break]

he must really like this restaurant. [break][break]

“what are you getting?”

[break][break]

[attr="class","ooc"] @symon [break]
I'M SORRYYYYYY[break]

[attr="class","pkspr pkmn-litwick"]

something prickly and sharp swells up in nagi’s gut; irritation, a surge of protectiveness, a flash of righteous anger he has never felt before, and has no idea what to do with. it coalesces into a singular thought: this night won’t end with symon as a punchline. [break][break]

he hitches the menu higher up on the table, stabbing his finger down by the photo of a spotlit bottle of wine. he has no idea what he’s pointing at, hasn’t even read the gold-embossed text curled in cursive over the label; all that matters is that it looks expensive.[break][break]

“let’s get this,” he says, “as a birthday treat. and, uh — ” what’s the thirty-dollar-est cut of steak? he flicks through the menu, rifling past the familiar harbor of the blts to the main dishes with prices wouldn’t have even bothered to glance at before “ — i’ll have a filet mignon.”[break][break]

his tongue curls around his familiar, under-used kalosian; he flicks his gaze up from the warpath to symon, searching. was that too much?

[break][break]

[attr="class","ooc"] @symon [break]


[attr="class","pkspr pkmn-litwick"]

"better, back in civilisation."

he tips his head to one side as he answers, a slow, subtle upturn dancing at the edge of his lips; a surly cat drawn out of its repose in spite of itself by his companion's puppy-like, infectious enthusiasm.[break][break]

what with the news of an oncoming meteor, a mysterious barrier, hoenn steaming in a greenhouse of unexplained creation — he’s doing as well as he could be. his first summer in hoenn is unfolding like a b-rate sci-fi flick. [break][break]

“it’s still hot, though.”[break][break]

the sunburn at his nose, freshly healed from his jaunt on the island, is starting to turn pink again despite his best efforts. [break][break]

“how about you?”

[break][break]

[attr="class","ooc"] @symon [break]


[attr="class","pkspr pkmn-litwick"]

careful attention tracks each roll of symon’s eyes, each curl of his lips, even though the atrophied muscles of nagi’s own face remain stuck at neutral — so he doesn’t miss when symon’s voice and gaze drops. concern rises like a tide; a disarming protectiveness that’s been brewing inside nagi since symon had turned to him with that first bleeding cut on the island.[break][break]

“yeah.” he nods, the seat creaking as he leans into the backrest. “it’s hectic, what with the —” he flicks his hand outwards, mouth a sour twist, taken together to mean basically everything. “ — but we’re doing what we can to keep people informed.”[break][break]

which isn’t much. there is only so much they can do, when there is so little they know. [break][break]

the impending apocalypse. how is that for an effective conversation ender? nagi winces internally — chews on the inside of his lip as he recalls the momentary falter in symon’s sunshine demeanour. [break][break]

the tablecloth is smooth under his fingertips, as he rolls up the edges. “you’re holding up alright?”

[break][break]

[attr="class","ooc"] @symon [break]


[attr="class","pkspr pkmn-litwick"]

there is a part of him that pipes in — the quiet voice in the loudest part of his brain, saying: but what if it isn’t?[break][break]

a part of nagi is braced, always, for the worst thing to happen. [break][break]

he stubs the thought out, lets its embers smoulder on the base of his heel. into the lip of his wineglass, mouth set against the curve, he says, “hoenn’s made it this far.”[break][break]

wine hits his tongue, astringent and faintly fruity. somewhere between his crusade of justice against symon’s boys and the conversation about the impending end-of-the-world, nagi had forgotten that he doesn’t really drink. ethanol burns a trail down his throat as it goes down; he swallows, somehow, with a straight face.[break][break]

it’s fine. it’s a birthday! birthday are exceptions. and, when he threatened to eat a hole through the pockets’ of symon’s boys, he meant it. righteous comeuppance makes the little break in his self-imposed embargo more than worth it. [break][break]

and speaking of birthdays —[break][break]

gingerly, he smooths the wrinkles out of the baby-blue crepe wrapping paper with his fingertips, tugs at the loops of the yellow ribbon secured at the top to even them out, before nudging the rectangular package across the table towards symon. " — here."[break][break]

inside the box, the price tag torn off and adhesive painstakingly rubbed clean, a solar dancing fomantis sways in place. a post-it stuck to the bottom scrawls in blue-ink, chicken-scratch cursive: thistle is cuter. nagi[break][break]

an equally chicken-scratch doodle of the fomantis adorns the corner, parts of it blotted out in white where the artist second-guessed second-guessing their creation. [break][break]


[break][break]

[attr="class","ooc"] @symon [break]


[attr="class","pkspr pkmn-litwick"]