AN: How long it has been. And I fear that my writing in English will need time to grow again. But I like this. I think this is alright. Hope you do too. :) I love you.

Disclaimer: I will never own Pokémon.

Pull the wires.

Friendship doesn't conclude from excitement, you don't have to be special. Be yourself. — BlackWhite.


She has always been stronger than he has.

It's always she that has the opinion to leave it all behind, Black reasons.

Because, he won't. He cannot. Leaving her aside will make him lose more than he gains. Despite the fact that he has known her only for three years, he knows it covers a whole lifetime.

White is like that—she makes you feel more alive. Whatever she takes on—battles, mission (and later clubs)—she does it with enthusiasm, she does it with reason. She does it with heart.

She's perfection just because she isn't perfect.


"How far have the journey taken you?" White asks over the phone, just as Black has stopped in a pokécenter close to Mistralton to make his pokémon prepare for the upcoming battle.

"What do you mean?" Black returns, because there are several hidden meanings in her questions—and how can he know that she means what he thinks she does? "You, um, know where I am."

"I didn't mean that, I'm talking about earlier, when you said that you didn't know what you wanted this to lead."

Oh, that.

Black regretted telling her that, mostly because he does not know how to explain. He knows what he feels—about this and about her and about everything—but him knowing doesn't bring her to knowledge. They never walk around the same coin, they are two different things. "Oh. Well, I can't say that have changed."

"That sucks. How can't you know?"

"It's not that easy, okay." It is.

"Black, if you don't want this; how can you enjoy what you achieve? How can you enjoy training with your pokémon, how can you enjoy when you defeat a leader? How can you enjoy your progress, how can you enjoy the friends you make when you're not honest with them?"

It feels like a lump wobbles in Black's throat, and he stops.

Hangs up when words fail to support him.


When Black first met White, it was on the train stretching to Anwille town—in the middle of nowhere—with his father. Black later met her on the train, where he sat positioned against an icy cold window with his Snivey in his lap, and she almost immediately spotted him and curved her lips to a smile. Some people are like that, they talk and they take place and somehow it feels like it's belonged to them all along. After Black's father had made his son the honor to leave him alone, the girl came and sat beside him, blue eyes looking undercover, brown hair that curled over slim shoulders.

"Hi, what a cute Snivey you got there, it's yours?"

Black cracked his lips and tried to sound enthusiastic. "Yeah. Or it's my dad's but it's going to be mine eventually, when I start my journey."

"You haven't yet?" she asked. "Me neither. I want to be older, you know. To really understand what I'm doing. But I can hardly wait!"

It was hard to know what to say to her. She was pretty and kind—and Black sounded like a broken machine when he tried to be charming. He didn't want to ruin this, he wanted it to spread on, but knowing personal issues, he knew the chances were very slim.

Still, somehow it worked. She talked and got him to talk. He talked more than he had in three month, not that that was much. She made him see in another way, through positive-glasses, through another dimension. That it's often you that's the guru in your life-style, that it's you that initially put up fences around your own wishes.

"We sure need to keep contact," White—it didn't take long to get her name out of her—declared, digging in her backpack for a piece of paper and a pen. "What's your number?"


Black, Black, where are you?

White had looked so innocent back then, in a pink hoodie and pants that reached down to her ankles, however now, it's nothing innocent about her. Her hair is fluffy, her clothes are tight and lacking, her lips are painted red and dripping a little, explainable from all the kissing on cheeks she does to everyone she knows.

"Are you okay?" she asks and spins with her glass over the bar-table. "You look a little funny."

That's an understatement. Black isn't too fond of parties. Then again, he doesn't seem to be too fond of anything. "No, I'm alright."

"Good," White smiles and turns to him, giving him an unwilling view of the cleft between her breasts. "It has been too long."

Since we met, is the continuation and nothing else. Black knows who's to blame but he does it for her. Or at least that's what he assumes. "White, I'm—"

"No, no, we don't need to get moody now," White interrupts and down her glass with martini, or whatever it is, in a second. "Still, I want to dance with you. C'mon."

"No." The "no" sounds too harsh, he didn't mean it like that. It feels too late to correct, though, and this is what he always seem to do when something goes against his will—he runs away instead of grabbing the pointy sword and fight.

White childishly pouts but he can see real sadness in her eyes. "Why not?"

"Next time?"

It doesn't heal, it doesn't cover.

He doesn't even know if it's a promise he will keep.

(He will ruin this.)



"Eight badges?" Black asks and lets the question hang a little before continuing. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," White says, voice a little tight. It has been tight for a while now, something has changed between them.

(He has changed.)

"I'm not ready for the league yet, though," she goes on, for it is not like her to linger in grief, not like he does. "I need to train much more. I'm lacking strength, focus too much on luck. I can't do that on that level, they will crush me like an ant."

"No one can crush you, White."

White completes a weak laugh to that one. "Believe me, there's something that can."

A real friend would ask what that was, but Black doesn't dare. He doesn't dare to put severe matters in the spot-light, he's afraid as it is. "Oh, I see."

"Sure you do." Was that sarcastic? "How are you cooping?"

He fails to tell her the truth, that he can't get through Bryce's strategies and that his last battles have been in vain, for he's not even there anymore. He says commands, he sees what happens, but everything seems hidden in a blur. In fact, it's like his energy is gone, if he even had some to begin with. That's another reason to be jealous of White, for her determination, for her goal. She knows what she does.

"Alright," he mutters.

A pause. "Black… What is it that you're not telling me?"

"Nothing," he replies, all too quickly, and succumbs to reality again.

"You know you can talk to be about everything, right?"

Another pause stretches out. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

She hears the doubt. No, no, no. He didn't mean it like that. He didn't.

She feels so far away. He will not be able to keep her.


You know—it can't only be me, Black, you need to try too.

Another club and Black's wasted. He followed White's suggestion to let alcohol melt away some of his stiff posture, and it seems like it works a little too well.

He forgets to complain.

The music pulses through the club, emitting to a collective beat that makes the whole room start spinning. He glances at all this before he grabs another bottle of bear and downs it too, from top to bottom. It doesn't take long for him to lose White to the crowd, and he uses his loneliness to stare at the window and sees a reflection he thinks doesn't belong to him anymore.

What's wrong? What if I knew? How can I complain? Is this about?

It's about her. It's always about her.

Black drums with his fingers and tries to stay coherent.

Speaking of White, she soon arrives and greets him with a sophistical wave with her hand. Suddenly, he seems to remember the earlier promise—a dance—and he takes gulps before bringing the question afloat and he can—to his relief—see sparkles of happiness swimming in irises when he has.

She takes his hand in his and leads on.

At first, he's clumsy. Being so close to someone, even if this someone is his best—and probably only real—friend, makes him falter. His hands sweat and his legs tangle, and his moves seem out of rhythm. White, though, doesn't care. When does she ever? Instead, she moves him along, places soft hands on his shoulders before gliding them down to his hips. Gently rocking them, getting them in a small rotation, she moves them up again to ease his discomfort.

Her touches—no—I can't.

Black gets warm, it feels as he burns. He's afraid. This is too much. This is out of space. He will lose her. She's taking this too far, she doesn't know who he is, what he can do to destroy everything.

He doesn't want to lose her. He can't stand to lose her. "White," he murmurs, voice thick and breath covered in alcoholic fog. "Don't leave me."

Black doesn't know what he is doing.

White signs and slides a hand up in his hair, letting fingertips rub the scalp. "You know—I can return that to you."

Of course. Of course, of course. He's to blame. Of course it is. But this. He feels too much right now. Her touches, her smiles, her moves—she's a woman now, this is not innocent anymore, this is her.

He will want her—and want makes it sink under the sand.

She cannot love him. It must be a lie. Therefore, he can't accept it.

"I don't know what to say," Black admits at last.

"It's okay," White says softly, but it isn't. There's so much that he needs to say. So much that there is to say.

Nothing comes out. Words grow limp and die before they get the chance to reach her.


If it is what you want then I can't stop it, you know.

"Black, I don't know how to say this."

Don't say it. I don't want to hear. I can't cope to hear.

"But it feels like you're walking away from me."


"You are," White says, "and you know it too. Why can't you tell me what's wrong? Why don't you trust me?"

I trust you. There's so much to say. It's you. You know it's you. You're too much to me. You're too kind to me. You make me feel too much.

Indifference is what he wants to maintain. But she changes all the time—and makes him change along with her too.

He adores her. His feelings will never change. She saves her. He's jealous. He wants to be perfect too. But he isn't. He doesn't know how to keep his friends, he doesn't know how to trust them (or trust himself.) There's so much he does not know.

"I trust you," he manages.

"Well, I still don't think you do."

She will leave, she will vanish, she will never come back.

He needs to let her go. He has nothing to give her.

"Black? Black—hello? Where did you go?"

Black can't answer that himself.


Hello—where are you?

He lets days pass to weeks and ignores her. Or that's not the right word, that's not what he does—he escapes instead of taking responsibility.

Not honorable, but still. The relation with White only brings both sadness. He forgets how to make it delightful.

He scans through his text-messages without reading them. Opening them would make his doubts burn alive, tear him apart.

Maybe, Black starts to realize things. He was so afraid for White to walk away that he instead walked away from her.

Why? He knows.

Because friendship—and love for that matter—needs both to gamble. It can't be onesided. It can't survive onesided. And Black doesn't know how to keep one alive.

He wants. Oh, he wants. But as long as he has lived, he's been asocial. It was easier to be alone. Alone, no one could hurt him. Alone, no one could bully him. Alone, no one could hurt him. White, at first, has been the breaking of his sphere of glass, and for that, he adores her, however, it also makes him run away. How can he trust her? How can he know she will not let go? He doesn't want to risk. That's why he walked away.

That's why his hole in the stomach expands like outer space. He misses her. He wants her to stay.

(It's his fault.)


Sooner or later, he starts to realize that he can't be without her.

Having her one way is better than not having her at all; he has to deal with what he has. She will not forgive him for the first time, but maybe, that's a good experience for him. Everyone make mistakes, the difficulty is standing up to them.

Black fishes up his phone and texts.

I'm so sorry. I miss you. I'm so sorry.

It takes three days for White to answer.

Thank you, Black.

He smiles through falling tears.


"Black," he hears and when he spins around and takes in the view, White's there to fill it up.

How she found out about his whereabouts, he will never ever know.

It doesn't matter.

"I," he starts, gnawing on the swell of his under-lip, "I—how can I tell you this? I was s-s-scared. I didn't think I deserved you."

"And instead for telling me, you walked away." Her tone is cold but there's warmth to catch in her eyes.

"I did," he replies. "I'm sorry."

"Well, I don't know," she admits. "But I don't want to lose you. I like you. The rest is left to read in the stars. In short, though, you need to understand this; the few real friends we have, we love. We love them the way they are. We don't want them to change. We want them to remain the same."

Black's lips quiver. "T-t-there's so much I don't understand."

White finally smiles again and cups her hands around his face to press a soft kiss on his lips. "Give me a chance to teach you. Don't walk away from me."


The biggest issue for him is to believe that he doesn't need to change his personality, he needs to change his views.

It takes time. They have plenty of time. He's finally starting to understand.

She wants him the way he is. She isn't perfect. Neither is he.

This is no competition, this is a chance for him to see the world in a new color.

He will.