[attr="class","spiral"]“Both.”

An apt reply for an answer he has no intention of elaborating into. It’s more for himself than anything else. Trust, while never endowed verbally, is deep seated in their history, no matter how brief.

He still remembers their stroll through League Headquarters. It makes watching her now all the harder to stomach. To see her wither away into nothingness.

Not enough so to interfere when he could’ve. Not enough to give her the time of day she so rightfully deserves. But it still bubbles in the crevice of his stomach, a wishing well sorrow that’s painted in prayers rather than actionable items.

“Naturally.” Her meal is finished and his is halved. He has no intention of finishing the rest. His appetite has long soured. The rest will be bagged and carried out—nothing goes to waste. Likewise, Freya will not be squandered. He is to enjoy her to the last bite.

“However, I have no intention of letting you die.”

His smile promises dessert.

“I plan to live forevermore.”

[attr="class","spiral"]“Did I?” There’s almost a whimsical note to the question as if toying with her. It’s the only hint he allows to breach the surface. The rest waits for her underneath the depths of his own depravity.

“I suppose contradictions rise from those willing to fold on their principles in order to acquire what they want. Congratulations.”

Fernando lowers the doggy back to his side. It sits on the floor beside his seat. He doesn’t allow it to soil his view. The table remains reserved for them and only them.

“I trust your judgement.” He has no intention of micromanaging her. Not this late into the game.

A credit card weightier then the pen provided is placed within the leather studded folder that comes with their bill. His signature is dotted in one smooth motion. He tips well, not because of the service, but because his company puts him in a good mood.

“I look forward to your housewarming.”

[attr="class","spiral"]“…”

Her gesture does not escape his notice. What it means is all too loud despite the clamorous background. He doesn’t inquire despite his own curiosity. Instead, he accepts her for who she is, leaning to fetch his leftovers during their brisk departure.

“Pretend?”

A challenge is set in stone.

“Freya.”

He leaves it at that, accepting.

[attr="class","spiral"]This part of her he can do without. The fascination with Pokemon, how entrenched they’ve become in our lives, is something he can never understand. Well, that’s inaccurate. Perhaps sympathize is a more acute word.

“…”

His own grace is not meant for riding. He lacks the same movements when it comes to mounting a stranger’s beast. Her hand is taken and leveraged with each step. His place is behind her, arm wrapped around her waist.

He doesn’t dare let go.

[attr="class","spiral"]The turbulence is something he can never adjust to. No matter who’s Pokemon it is. Even his own quiver when taking off at full speed. The most he can do is trust, left to depend upon them for safe travel.

When she turns back Fernando’s stare fixes on her own. His eyebrows a knotted, a tell tale sign he’s not in his own element, but that doesn’t come as a surprise. The marvel of their scenery is lost upon him, for he cares not.

Their descent is met with his hold squeezing her a bit tighter. Not enough to become uncomfortable—he could never—but just to reaffirm his grip onto her.

A safe journey is all he could ask for. Every time speed is of the essence, he secretly wonders if it’ll be his last.

[attr="class","spiral"]There is a line you do not cross.

For Fernando, he is a patron saint. His patience is immeasurable. Those around him? Utter buffoons. But his mind is impenetrable. The migraines that sprout from the seeds of idiocy wither without the soil of mental weakness to fuel it.

He simply does not care.

What he does care about is the one thing he values above all else: himself. So when he feels the foundation of their safety, their Salamence ride, leave the feeling of his legs, his annoyance folds inward. He has no doubt that it will rescue them long before they become a splat on the ground, but such flashiness is nothing short of gaudy.

His grip tightens to the point that even if Freya wish to pry him off he would hold onto her much like their promise, eternally.

And, somehow, during all of this, he still finds the time to scowl.