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antihibikase2 · 11 months ago

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"Dearest Cheren Slater,"

Philia

Nate used to have very few people to turn to when he needed it; of course, Hugh and Rosa shared a spot at the top of his list, and especially his mother- but outside of them, Hugh's family, and maybe big sis Roxie all the way at Virbank, his options were limited.

And, truthfully, none of them fit the bill for his current dilemma- his mother would tell him he could achieve anything he wanted as long as he put his mind into it, his friends would tell him to believe in himself..

So he goes to the person who he knows sees the truth, the one that carries the will of the hero that rode the white dragon of fire; his city's gym leader, and his homeroom teacher.

"Do you think I could be a hero like Hilbert Blackburn?"

It was a touchy subject- the people of Nuvema treaded the topic of The Hero of Truth as if he was a ghost, someone that never existed. His truth was hidden in plain sight, spoken in-between hushed whispers.

As kind and patient Cheren Slater was, adapting his language and presence to be one fit around students,

He was still the Cheren Slater from two years ago, the same Cheren Slater who spoke his mind and thought Team Plasma was a waste of oxygen.

"Why be like Hilbert at all?" He asks. "It's your life and your story- there's no right answer to what kind of hero you should be."

The answer came to him so easily, as if he was asked about this a hundred times before- but to Nate, this was a revelation, the bridge he needed to reach out for his ideals.

Whether his reply came from a teacher's wisdom, a big brother's love, or the concern of a friend, Nate didn't know- and he didn't mind keeping it in the dark. All that mattered was the truth.

"Sincerely, your favorite student Nate."

Storge

His position as an Elite Four member granted him many luxuries, ones he had dreamed of when he was just a mere ace trainer waiting to be scouted into the professional scene. Though many starting out found it difficult to enjoy the fruits of their labor, Grimsley was Grimsley, and well..

"I always found a way to sneak out back then," He raises a champagne glass. "Of course, I couldn't live like that forever. I started working very seriously, and-"

"You're back to sneaking out now?" Grimsley's glass clinks against Cheren's- though his drink was nothing but pink lemonade. "I've heard tales from Mr. Alder that you were quite irresponsible."

"I wised up once I had to- I couldn't trust dad to look after you, not when he was like that."

They were all true, however- though that irresponsibility came from a place of rebellion and lack of direction; he aspired to become a professional trainer to provide for his family first and foremost after all, a goal that had earned him the ire of many of his rivals back then.

"In the end, I became just like dad," Grimsley swirls his glass. "I got caught up in wanting what's best for you, I didn't stop to think what you wanted- and I ended up not being there for you at all."

He stops himself.

This wasn't a pity party for him or a chance to let out his frustrations over his father once more, it was a birthday dinner for his dear brother; his brother who was once a small, wide-eyed crybaby that pranced around the daycare in his oversized uniform and fluffy boots.

Now, he sits across the table from his brother Grimsley, looking like one of the photos he had of his late mother- before the fall of the Battle Institute, before Noland found a job at Hoenn, before anything.

"You know," He speaks again, meeting his brother's eyes; he looked just like Lillith, despite everything. "Dad used to take mom to this restaurant too."

"Best wishes, your kuya Giima."

Pragma

When a fire had ravaged through the earth, he had believed that hell had come to the land of the living, rendering the soil infertile and stripping him of salvation, doomed to wander for eternity as a sinner.

It wasn't until an angel sent by the heavens above descended from the skies, his soothing voice washing through the fields, healing their wounds- and their growth was aided by the warmth of his smile.

It took patience for his garden to grow to how it was now, evolving from the barren land it was before.

But as if the past was a distant memory or even a bad dream, the scars of the earth were buried underneath fields of red and white, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Descante adored the resilience of flowers, no matter how small.

A delicate little flower doesn't last in a battlefield, nor does it brave through the storm- but a little flower tries, and it endures and persists, like the berries they provide. Even in their death, pressed in-between pages, their beauty was eternal, a blessing taken for granted.

Trainers come and go, passing by his home and complimenting the blossoming fields and orchards- but while they sing praises for the sweetness of the fruit, Descante's worship is reserved for the most beautiful flower of them all.

He presses the tamato flowers between the pages of his journal, tucking away his fountain pens in his drawer.

From outside his window, his little flower scurries around with a Wailmer Pail in his hands, bidding the plants a restful winter with a soothing lullaby.

Descante smiles- and heads downstairs to fix Slater a cup of tea to warm his bones. It wouldn't do if his little flower shriveled in the cold.

"Yours truly, your champion Descante."

Mania

The jealous boy of the gallery loves white roses for their simplicity and purity- they stood out in the darkness of the labyrinth, even more so when they were slowly dyed red. Nothing in this dark and dreary world was as real as the white rose, the embodiment of his spirit.

His own was a deep dark blue, the color of the night sky and the depths of the abyss- unnatural and cold, its petals only change when dyed into black.

A blue rose could sparkle and shine on the outside world, charming the eyes of all he meets- but in the shadows of the gallery, as another one of its inhabitants, it was a grim reminder of his fabricated existence.

He could never seek to possess a pure spirit, one worthy of the white rose- but perhaps, he could claim it for himself, as one of his toys.

He's adamant in his nature, like many of his father's creations- and though he was eternally a youth, inexperienced and impulsive, he outwits the teacher that possessed an orange rose, the one obstacle that stands between him and what he desires.

The thorns of the rose could not dissuade him from holding onto it as if it were his lifeline.

The paintings of the gallery loved playing loves me, loves me not; Piper was no exception. In fact, he knew a winning strategy.

His fingers wrap around each of the delicate petals in his grasp- and he haphazardly pulls on them one by one, cackling as he does so.

As each petal falls to the floor, clinging onto the cold wax of his shoe, Slater's soft breathing steadies into a ringing silence, until Piper could hear nothing but his own sobs.

Atop the Final Stage, its name is changed to accommodate the final touches of the sculpture- and its artist's signature is from none other than Piper himself, penned with his own blood.

"Always and forever, your other half Piper."

Ludus

“There’s better ways to get around a traffic jam. Soaring through the sky isn’t one of ‘em. Nor is it normally approved by the league, especially by the mayor,” Hilbert is rarely cheeky- and today is one of the special occasions he can afford to behave like this. “But they let me take him out for a ride today. I told them I would be transporting valuable cargo.”

Cheren’s grip was like a Durant’s, crushing his torso- he buried his face on the hero’s back, gritting his teeth in a mix of fear and irritation. Though he may have soared the skies on his Unfezant before, he had long since accepted that he was not one for air travel.

“Hilbert, I swear to the legendary dragons- especially Reshiram,” It’s a hiss that comes out of his mouth- but if Hilbert dug deep enough, he could trace his tone to what he convinced himself was playfulness. Or a threat. “If I fall off its back, I’m taking you with me. And if we live, I’m going to kill you.”

“I told you, didn’t I? I’ve had enough time,” Two years, in fact- “To practice riding Reshiram around. It’s scary at first, yeah, but once you get used to him and the feeling of the wind on your hair, your hearts become one- and you’re never going to fear flying ever again!”

“Well, yes, for you- you’re the Hero of Truth,” If Hilbert could see the way he rolled his eyes at him now. “I think it’s the bare minimum for you to learn how to ride him- but can’t you slow down? We’re in no rush, aren’t we?”

“I mean, yeah, we aren’t-” But the people waiting for the both of them at the league would not take it kindly if Hilbert were to be running late with the birthday boy- the one they planned a whole surprise party for. “But, you know, I don’t want to waste a minute of your special day.”

“And why would any minute be wasted?” Blunt as ever, Cheren continues to speak his mind. “Nothing’s a waste, you know. Not when I’m with you.”

It’s far too late when he catches himself saying those words- and before he could stammer out an apology, fearing that such an admission would get to Hilbert’s head and distract him from his flight, Hilbert only laughs- the same kind of laugh he would let out when he was a child, covered in dirt and twigs.

“Aw, don’t be embarrassed, Cheri-” He decides to spare him the teasing for now- and he hopes the white dragon won’t mind taking the blame. “-maybe Reshiram’s aura is just getting to you! Making you more honest than usual!”

His laughter is cut off when Cheren squeezes him harder- and he feels the icy gaze of his best friend piercing through his back. For all of Cheren’s worries about the dangers of the sky, Hilbert found him to be the biggest danger of all.

"With love, your hero Hilbert."

Philautia

The Heart does not regret dying for the sake of the princes, for the birth of the twin dragons- but if he had to repent for any sin in his life, it would have been his greed.

"I wished to be remembered for eternity- and wished to stay by their sides," He laughs bitterly. "Death was the only way to achieve both."

The divine dragons of Truth and Ideals have granted the wish of a foolish heart; his life and his death are to be worshipped for all of eternity, a beauty that will never be tarnished.

Bound to the depths of the sea of time, The Heart listens to the crashing of waves from above the surface- and is horrified to hear the consequences of dream.

A face modeled after his own, eyes softer than his- The Heart reborn makes a wish more innocent than his own.

The fools that play the roles of the divine bring it upon themselves to grant his wish- and split his heart into two, leaving nothing for the vessel.

When the slaughtered lamb lays on the floor, his death mourned by those he loved- The Heart is one of the false castle's many inconsolable souls.

He loved him. How could he not? This had been him- this was him, a life that mirrored his own. And it had been The Heart's own wish that led to such bloodshed.

The Heart would have done anything to bring him back to life- so he offered himself.

The young Cheren Slater dies a cruel death just a week before his fifteenth birthday- and his life continues, as if he hasn't died at all.

"Take care, your unwavering heart."

#bw/bw2 rewrite #cherenverse #ib au #drabble #kuroshipping #mutualism #surrealism cw #death cw

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