This is a little fic I had the impulse to write. Mainly AshxPaul, written to try out a different style of point of view. Inspired by Timbaland's song "One and Only."

My One and My Lonely

You shuffle your feet along the well-paved roads of Veilstone City. The noises dies as quickly as they're produced, ringing in your ears. You keep a steady rhythm—Step, pause. Step, pause. You walked the same path so many times, and you're sure that if you look hard enough, you can see your old footprints tattooed onto the path. There is no reason, nothing solid to explain your appearance.

But you're here.

And that's enough for now.

In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter that you're dragging his feet like you've just come out of a funeral, just like it doesn't matter that the Sinnoh League victory is lead in your chest. In the end, there are only cold black eyes weighing your worth and half-formed insults—apologies, really—dancing on the tip of your tongue.

You don't have much else to give as an offering—much else in mind as you approach the rendezvous. You only bring yourself and your acceptance, though that itself cowers and retreats a little with every step. But your resolve and your desire is unwavering, much like the calculating glance you basks in. Your once-upon-a-time-simple destination is closer and closer still, hiding behind what you've told others and what you've told yourself.

Mid-step, you pause, mind whirring to decipher your reasoning. You're fighting yourself for a way out, clawing at those black eyes, willing them to flinch. They don't. Just like that, you retreat back into place, because your excuses are sorry blows, and because you're never going to win against those eyes anyway, and because it's just a hell of a lot easier to accept it.

You step forward, treading carefully over your broken resistance like shards of broken glass.


For a moment, a silence burns in your ears.

It's louder than anything you've heard, telling you—screaming at you—to turn back, to fight with the indomitable spirit it knows you have. But that spirit doesn't know how to work outside of the heat of battle and the thrill of victory, so it stands back. It has no need to be involved in problems of the heart.

Problems you've brought upon yourself.

Slowly, without permission, a smile spreads across your face. Traitorous, but true, it holds the promise of hope. You've never known seconds thoughts, so why start now? You know he's waiting, and it wouldn't do to make him upset.

Not when this will be the last time.

Of course, like with all the promises you make, its spontaneous assurance depends solely on your resolve.

And just where is that, when you need it?


"Wipe that smile off your face," he snaps, desperately trying to build a wall back up to keep you out. But with just one confused look, you obliterate it, exposing only a shell of the man you used to know.

It's odd that you never noticed how easy you made it for him to step over you, how little effort he put into leaving you below him. Most of all, though, it's odd that you don't care—because for once, you're winning.

You're not the one picking up the pieces this time, the one who's fighting to keep himself together after giving him your all. No, it's not you. In that moment of weakness, you realize the small inconspicuous power you hold over him. It's not much, but for you, that's enough.

He won't look at you. The piercing coal eyes don't wish to greet you this time around. They're hidden. By the slump of his shoulders. By the scarves and hoods that shield his face. By your fear.

You act rashly, tugging at the clothing that separates his eyes from yours, and the strength in your actions surprise him.

The resistance breaks down. The last poker face falls.

You step closer, squinting to better see the flicker of emotions in the onyx. Loathing. Hope. Desperation. And something else. Something you hadn't known him capable of, overriding everything else behind the mask.

It snakes around your heart, constricting it with every beat it gives.

It scares you.

But like a moment before a battle, your fighting spirit takes over, sweeping away every rational thought that doesn't include triumph. It's pushing you forward, driving you to face those eyes, mirrors of your own. It wills you to break them.

You don't.

Instead the pushing moves you closer and closer until once again you admit defeat.

You fall into the circle of his arms.

Thanks for reading! Grace me with a review? :D