Thunderlight

What Do You Want?

Just outside of Ada's house, the palpitoad noblewoman's procession passes them by again. Mott catches the tail end of whatever she's saying: "...Zekrom-themed, so creative! So lucrative! Imagine the ghost stories we can invent, like a man burning to death within these very walls!"

Mott shudders. Thankfully, Florian and Torquil quickly pull him inside. If he had to listen to another word of that, he might've thrown up.

The moment the door opens, Ada's head shoots up from where she sits in the living room. At the sight of him, she leaps to her feet and rushes over. After checking his injuries, once, twice, and even three times, she gives him a scolding frown. The look is significantly softened by the sympathy still oozing from her.

"How's Lenny?" He asks. He didn't expect his voice to be so hoarse.

She frowns at him a moment longer before releasing a long, weary sigh. Looking to the bedroom Lenny is shut inside, she says, "Better than he was. Still not great."

Better is a start. At this point, he'll take anything.

"He woke up a little bit ago," she reports. His heart skips a beat. "He kept asking for you."

His heart cracks. Lenny asked for him while he was gone?

"But he's asleep, finally," she finishes, exhaling tiredly, "so you should get some rest, too."

He barely gets a chance to respond before Florian and Torquil take him by the arms again, leading him away.

"Come on, Mott," Torquil says, gentle, "we can rest on the back porch for a little." Mott would like to protest being treated like a child, but he's way too exhausted to put up a fight. So, he lets them lead him to the back porch and settle him at the stairway.

Florian leaves almost as soon as Mott sits down. He doesn't think much of it. He doesn't think of much other than Lenny. Gazing out at the small, empty backyard, he sits silently as thousands of questions race through his mind. How is Lenny? She said he was doing better, but how much of an improvement is that? Or was she just lying to appease him? Will Lenny ever truly wake up, coherent and responsive? If he does, what will he think of Mott? Will he be elated that they're both alive? Or will he hate Mott for letting this happen to him?

The onslaught of self-interrogation spins his mind so fast it's almost dizzying. He doesn't even notice Florian return until he thrusts a cup of steaming tea in front of Mott's face.

"It's infused with oran berries," Florian states, forcing it into his hands. "Drink it. It will help your wounds."

Mott nods and murmurs a quiet "thanks" before sipping. The tanginess of the berry blends with green tea and honey to create a perfectly balanced flavor. Warmth spreads throughout his body and melts into his bones, easing the aches and pains he's suffered since yesterday. It's the best he's felt since walking into that damned museum.

"It's good," he croaks, taking another sip. "Thanks."

"I didn't make it," Florian scoffs, as if offended by the mere insinuation that he would perform any menial task. "Ada's new children made it. I didn't think it would take three teenagers to make a single pot of tea, but I digress."

"They have a talent," Mott quips, half joking and half serious.

They sit in silence. For a moment, gazing out at the empty backyard, Mott can almost imagine that he's overlooking the flower fields they spent their childhoods in. He wonders, inwardly, if Torquil and Florian are envisioning the same thing. It would be nice, escaping to those flower fields all over again.

It would be nice.

But he doesn't have the flower fields. All he has is Torquil and Florian beside him, each carrying a little part of the garden inside them. It's enough.

Naturally, Florian's gracious silence doesn't last long. Because the man is incapable of not talking, apparently.

"You shouldn't have gone up to that hill to wear yourself out," he scolds, his voice low. His gaze is locked on the ground, his eyebrows furrowed. Anger plays itself in his features—too obviously. Mott knows Florian well enough to know that it's a mask hiding his true feelings. When he looks deeper, he sees them: pain, fear, struggle. Because Mott is hurting and he doesn't know what to do. "You already almost died in your stupid, reckless, useless battle with Zekrom; were you trying to exert yourself to death?"

Knowing Florian is just concerned doesn't stop the vitriol boiling up inside him. He's tired. He's hurt. He's confused. The last thing he needs is the Callahan golden child to lecture him about the shit he already knows.

"Piss off," he mutters, taking another drink.

Florian doesn't relent. "Despite your insistence on acting it, we're not children anymore. I'm not going to be there to save you every time you fail."

Mott flinches.

Failure.

Torquil swoops in to try and defuse the situation. "Hey, let's all just take a moment to breathe, okay? It's been a long couple of days and we're all pretty high strung. Why don't we just relax outside and enjoy—"

"Oh, save it, Torquil," Florian bites out, and Torquil shrinks back. Mott shoots a glare at him. "You've always been too relaxed and passive for your own good; Mott's always had a hero complex. When are the both of you going to grow up and join the real world? When are you going to stop wandering aimlessly and accept your responsibility in your families?"

"Accept responsibility in my family?" Mott echoes, his tone sharp. "In case you forgot, I was kicked out of my family after a duel with a certain someone."

Florian looks away. "That's not my fault. I have a duty to uphold in my family—the moment I show any weakness, every other noble family will pounce. I can't fail, not even once. Not even for you."

"How about you go back to your precious estate, then?" Mott snaps, setting his half-finished tea on a stair. "Take care of your affairs and leave me the hell alone."

"I think I will. I've spent far too long wasting time with the two of you that I nearly forgot my duty. Thank you for reminding me, Montgomery," Florian spits, his voice laced with sarcasm and barbs. Rising up, he turns sharply toward the house and slithers inside. "I wonder how you'll fare without me? It seems you always get your sorry ass kicked as soon as I leave."

Mott scowls, making a 'tsk' sound.

For a moment, Florian pauses. Then, he snaps, "And for heaven's sake, drink your damn tea. How else will you get better?"

Grumbling under his breath, Mott grudgingly lifts the tea and takes another sip. Holding his nose in the air, Florian marches inside and slams the door.

Silence falls over him and Torquil.

"Sorry for dragging you into that," Mott apologizes with a sigh.

"It's fine. You and I both know Florian doesn't mean half of what he ever says, anyway. The man's a mystery," Torquil jokes half-heartedly. "Especially when he feels cornered. He just doesn't know what to do, so he lashes out. He's really just worried about you, you know. And he feels really guilty about getting you kicked out of your family."

Mott nods. "I know. Doesn't mean he isn't an ass."

"That's true."

They share a laugh, and immediately, the mood lightens. It doesn't become a good mood, necessarily, but it doesn't weigh so heavily in his chest.

By the time he finishes the tea, the sting in his injuries subsides for the most part. Still, under instructions from Ada, Torquil helps him remove his old bandages and put some clean ones on. Uncovering the wounds makes Mott grimace at the state of himself. Was he really running around with injuries like this? No wonder Florian was pissed at him.

Eyes trained on Mott's bandages, Torquil asks, "So. What are you gonna do, now?"

Mott hates the way that question makes him feel.