Equitial
Ace Trainer
- Pronouns
- he/him
- Partners
-
Methods of Support
Snapshots into the lives of six Pokemon as they support their humans in what ways they can.
First place winner of this forum's Friends and Partners Contest!
Snapshots into the lives of six Pokemon as they support their humans in what ways they can.
Some language
Depiction of chronic pain
Self-directed ableism
In part 5, there is an on-screen mental health episode with self-injurious behavior and severe physical abuse. This part can be skipped with no issue toward the rest of the story.
Depiction of chronic pain
Self-directed ableism
In part 5, there is an on-screen mental health episode with self-injurious behavior and severe physical abuse. This part can be skipped with no issue toward the rest of the story.
First place winner of this forum's Friends and Partners Contest!
---
1.
A Gothitelle can see as a human never could.
Gothitelle’s feelers fan around her head. The ribbons on her torso quiver, reaching out to absorb all she passes. They pull in light and sound, smell and life and aura, and paint an interpretation of the world around her. Sparkling sunrays warm the air and kiss whatever they can reach. All around her are pockets of life—in the air, the rooftops and alleyways, and of course walking with her on the streets—above each of which is a cloud of blurred and indecipherable emotion.
A vehicle rushes by, expelling a gaseous black haze. One of its wheels runs through a puddle to create a spectrum of flying droplets. The smell, the smell of this city is a heavy cloud, a grumbling mass, a thundercloud of swarming insects.
(And always—always in the sky—the stars.)
She absorbs all this, her own portrait of the world. She absorbs, and transmits.
Beside her, Gothitelle’s human walks, waving a white cane in front of her like an imitation of a Gothitelle’s ribbons. The tip of her human’s cane taps against a rise in the concrete, and her human steps up without pause, continuing to swing her artificial antenna. Gothitelle follows, head tilted upward, processing through her feelers.
It is impossible to see through another’s eyes, though Gothitelle gives what she can.
Gothitelle’s human does not see as a Gothitelle does, nor as the majority of her own species. The surface of her eyes are cloudy-white; they can barely detect if it is night or day. Her cane detects close, concrete details—like the pavement step. These kinds of things do not show in the vision Gothitelle transmits, though Gothitelle herself notices them. But when Gothitelle’s ribbons draw toward a bed of flowers, reaching toward the softly rustling colors, her human turns her head.
Gothitelle closes her eyes, focusing on her ribbons’ and feelers’ image. She sees the flowerbed as a mesh of scent and colors—red and orange and yellow and green—all brimming with life, dazzling motes of growth and nature. Her human’s silhouette shadows the picture as she approaches and crouches down in front of it. She inhales deeply, channeling the colors upward and into herself.
After Gothitelle and her human return home from their excursion, Gothitelle removes her service badge, the largest accessory she will consent to wearing. Her human nods in thanks as she disconnects.
(Others of Gothitelle’s species may project disdain that Gothitelle would share her vision with a human. But every sense, every means of processing the world, is unique. It is not a Gothitelle’s vision, but this Gothitelle’s vision. And she may do with it as she pleases.)
Gothitelle’s human works in the kitchen. She fills a glass cup with water until it reaches her fingertips, then pours it into the pot she left on the stove-top. Her fingers search for the stove’s controls. She rummages through the refrigerator—running her hands over the contents until she finds what she needs—and cuts them and combines them together. The pot on the stove begins to bubble, and she turns. She puts a fingertip of her concoction to her tongue before dumping the rest in. Cooking is a task Gothitelle never could master, though she likes the way her human makes the aromas and sounds blend together...
After the meal, Gothitelle retires to her room. Lining the darkly painted walls are shelves holding Gothitelle’s earthly possessions: small wood boxes containing blades of grass and dried flowers, sparkling polished stones in carefully arranged piles, candles of various scents purchased with her human’s help. She rearranges her possessions as she does every evening, and then stands in the middle of the room. She looks past the ceiling skylight which lets in the dimness of the dusk sky.
Above, the brightening stars are supernovas exploding, their remnants whirling into a delicate, ever-changing scrawl. Gothitelle watches, alone, until her human knocks softly on the door.
“Hey, do you want to go outside?”
Gothitelle and her human lie beside each other. Gothitelle shares her vision, though she does not know how much her human truly receives. Does the sight of the stars fill her like it fills Gothitelle, bursting and vivid and whispering and beckoning? Does her human feel the yearning Gothitelle feels, yearning to read the infinite messages the heavens supply?
Gothitelle does not think so, yet her human watches. Her eyes stare straight up. One hand rests on her chest, while the other gently brushes through blades of grass. Gothitelle’s ribbons reach toward her human, and her human smiles.
“I like how you and I both like the outside,” she says.
Gothitelle murmurs softly, studying the stars. A Gothitelle can see as a human never could. But Gothitelle can never see how her human does as well.
2.
A long time ago, he became Stoutland. After his evolution, he left his parents and wandered. Eventually, he found a mate and had his own children.
His children grew. His mate passed from this earth.
After that, he wandered again, looking for a new purpose. Now he is Dog, and Boy calls him Pup.
***
“Uhhuhhh-uuupp,” Boy says as Dog enters the room.
His mother tries to redirect him. “Shirt on first, okay?” Boy hums and bounces. Dog approaches. Having taken his morning meal, the first thing Dog does is check on Boy. Dog gently nudges Boy’s arm, and Boy goes still. His mother puts his second arm through his sleeve.
“Uuupp,” Boy says. “Puuu-uuup.”
“You and Gray are going to see some Water Pokémon today,” his mother says. “Are you excited?
“Mmmmm.” Boy turns to his bed. Piled on the end is a mound of soft plush toys, worn and full of Boy’s scent. Many of them take the form of a specific Pokémon—Lillipup. Boy takes one of those, holds it tight and presses its face against his own.
Soon, Boy returns and rubs the Lillipup’s fuzzy face along Dog’s torso, humming. Obligingly, Dog takes the toy into his mouth.
Boy pats a warm hand on Dog’s head. “Puuuupp.”
***
Dog has been many things. When he found and joined a strong female with a shining coat and striking eyes, he was Mate. When he had children with her, he became Father. During, before, and after those times he was Stoutland. Before Stoutland, he was Herdier. And before that, long ago, he was Pup.
He has lived too much to be Pup again, but he allows Boy to call him so. For Boy, Stoutland is not a Father or Mate or Stranger or Enemy; he is a companion.
For Boy, he is Dog.
***
Later in the day, the parents take Dog, Boy, and Boy’s sibling into their vehicle and drive them to a large building near the beach. When they arrive, the parents place a blue garment around Dog’s torso and a similar one over Boy’s clothes. Once Dog and Boy are both dressed, they are connected with a tether a little longer than Dog’s body length.
Boy hums to himself, rubbing the weave of the tether between his fingers as he stares wide-eyed at the aquarium building. As soon as he enters, however, he grows quiet. It is a dim place, with the soft sounds of water echoing off the floor’s shiny tiles and the glass wall beyond which swim the Water Pokémon.
Boy drifts like the creatures in the water, dragging a hand along the glass. Dog follows Boy’s current. Boy’s sibling speaks loudly to his parents, saying something about a particular Pokémon while Boy is enraptured to silence.
When Boy approaches a turn, Dog stops, halting Boy as well. Dog nudges Boy and points his head toward his parents on the other side of the long room. Boy stands still, looking through a window in which Chinchou bob their glowing antennae. One of Boy’s hands goes to his mouth; the other bobs through the air as if in imitation.
Eventually, Boy’s parents come to check on him. The father pulls gently on Dog's harness. “Come on, bud, there’s more to see.”
Boy turns, one hand in his mouth, eyes wondering.
***
Dog watched as his children came into the world. He stood by his mate’s side as she panted through childbirth. In the end, five tiny pups nursed at her side. Dog bent over them, growling softly, swearing to care for them.
When Dog was brought to Boy, Boy fidgeted in his father’s soothing hands. That is, until he saw Dog; then Boy stiffened as if given a jolt. Dog approached cautiously, not wishing to intimidate the small being. But, suddenly, Boy lunged forward, taking Dog’s long fur tight into his hands.
"Puuuuuh! Puuuuuh!" Boy cried while his father gently restrained him. Dog lowered his head so Boy could look into it. "Puuuuup!"
***
Boy has a brother, but the two are very different. Dog once had a pup who was different from her siblings.
By the time the others were walking, this pup could barely crawl. When she play-wrestled with her siblings, she did so happily but was always quickly overcome. When the other pups learned to hunt, this one was too uncoordinated to pounce when her loud footsteps didn’t give her position away.
This pup saw the world like her siblings didn't. Like her parents didn't. Pup would often stand still, taking deep breaths, closing her eyes to the world around her. She would stand in front of the stream and shift her head to watch light strike off the currents…
In the present, Boy now looks at the floor, chewing on a rubbery toy instead of his hand. Shadows through the water tanks ripple on the tile. Dog stands beside him, but Boy doesn't notice, so caught in details others cannot see.
***
As the outing wears on, Boy's movements become stiff and erratic. He clings to Dog; eventually, he climbs onto his back entirely, pressing his face into Dog’s neck. He mumbles and hums near Dog’s ear.
“Puuuh.” Boy runs his hands through Dog’s fur. “Puu-uup.”
When they get home, Boy goes to his room and falls asleep on top of his pile of plush toys. Dog quietly pads through the doorway. Dog notices the stuffed Lillipup from before is still on the ground. Dog retrieves it and places it in Boy’s hands.
Boy’s eyes flutter open; he looks sleepily to Dog. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Dog rests his head on the bed beside Boy regardless. Dog knows what he means to say.
Pup.
3.
Something hits the floor with a thud. Priscilla’s ears twitch as her current client Miss Wayson hisses something under her breath.
The television continues, airing a show with humorous humans who say words at each other and don’t notice when laughter comes from nowhere. There’s another Espurr in the TV right now, but Priscilla diverts her attention.
Miss Wayson rubs one hand with the other, making an unpleasant face. The source of the thud was apparently her dropping the television remote to the ground. Priscilla jumps off her chair to retrieve it.
Miss Wayson's words cut off. Priscilla levitates into the air, offering the remote from a convenient height. Miss Wayson still rubs her hands; Priscilla wonders if her client is experiencing significant pain. Priscilla looks to the clock, but—alas—Miss Wayson can only have more medication once the big stick is pointing toward the ground.
Anyway, Priscilla is holding out the remote. Miss Wayson has not taken it yet. Priscilla tilts her head, twitching her ears. Is Miss Wayson having some other problem...?
Finally, Miss Wayson lets out a sharp breath. "Drop it. I don't care. I don't want it."
An odd request. Priscilla lowers herself and hesitantly replaces the remote on the floor. Maybe she is misunderstanding? She decides to place it on the table instead, within reach of Miss Wayson. Ah yes. Priscilla returns to her seat and ruffles her grayish-purple fur. That is probably what Miss Wayson intended.
But Miss Wayson lets out another strange breath, this one loud and somewhat wet. Oh dear, there simply must be a problem. Priscilla approaches, but Miss Wayson’s face flares.
"Get away. Get out. I don't care. Just leave me alone. I'm not doing anything and I don't want to just sit in this gods-damn chair and watch TV and be in pain but I have no choice so JUST GET OUT!"
Priscilla flinches. She instinctively looks to the door, but she has been instructed to not leave her client except in the case of emergencies. Miss Wayson jerks and bends over, letting out more of those wet breaths.
She howls, flinging out her arm. She perhaps intends to grab something, but her fingers do not bend properly as they fly toward her cup of water. The cup flies off the table as Miss Wayson lets out another guttural sound.
The cup rolls on the fake wood floor. Water is splashed all over, creating a slipping hazard. Hesitantly, Priscilla lowers herself to the spill but— "Stop. Just stop," Miss Wayson gasps. She chokes off.
Priscilla looks on uncertainly as Miss Wayson... cries. Priscilla is not incredibly new at her career, but not incredibly experienced either. Pressure forms in her ears; she shifts, not knowing what should be done. Finally, Miss Wayson looks up.
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's not your fault. You're just some Pokémon. You were told to help me, and you do what you're told. Just—" Miss Wayson throws out her arms, her hands loose claws. "I just—just—"
The water is still on the floor. It would not be appropriate to let it stay, and the cup and straw should be replaced in case Miss Wayson finds herself thirsty. There is a cloth within easy reach, but…
"Can't even clean up my own damn messes," Miss Wayson says, looking down at her hands.
Maybe... maybe Priscilla does understand.
She sets the cloth on the floor, in front of Miss Wayson's wheelchair. Leaning against a sofa is a long, slender device: a metal stick with hooks on one end and a comfortable grip on the other. Priscilla fetches it, hesitates, and approaches Miss Wayson.
Miss Wayson looks to Priscilla. Slowly, she reaches out to take the device she proffers.
Priscilla steps out of the way as Miss Wayson toggles the knob on her chair to move herself toward the water spill. She lowers the device onto the cloth. She begins to clean.
Her face soon twists with effort, and she occasionally lets out muffled, pained grunts. Priscilla stands back, trying to calm the pressure near her ears. Miss Wayson doesn't once glance Priscilla's way; Priscilla tries to do the same.
Priscilla must say she is impressed by Miss Wayson's thoroughness, even if she doesn't quite get every last drop. With a trembling breath, Miss Wayson slumps back into her chair. Sweat coats her face, and her hands twitch in her lap.
Priscilla steps forward. Miss Wayson watches with a tight expression as she approaches the wet cloth on the ground.
Priscilla hesitates, feeling Miss Wayson watching. She looks up and, after a moment, Miss Wayson nods.
Miss Wayson did a completely acceptable job, despite the cost. Priscilla removes the cloth, then approaches the spilled cup and straw and waits again.
"Go ahead," Miss Wayson says, voice hoarse.
Priscilla cares for the spilled cup and prepares a new one. She sets it conveniently on the table. She realizes, however, that this was done without question, and she lowers herself to the ground, gaze averted.
Miss Wayson shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I just—everything is just—” She sighs. “Thank you.”
Priscilla looks up.
Miss Wayson is smiling. She nods toward the TV. “You like this show, don’t you. Go ahead.” Priscilla turns to the television and blinks. “I’m done. I don’t need anything else. For now.”
Priscilla inclines her head, a low purr beginning in her throat. She returns to her seat as Miss Wayson settles herself in her chair. Miss Wayson leans back, that smile still there, and looks toward the television as well.
They watch the rest of the show together.
4.
Togetic like to create happiness. Sunday doesn’t like to make broad statements like that, but that is true for all species, isn’t it? All people want happiness deep down, but all people are also different. Sunday knows that not all of her species are suited for the role she takes. She would never judge any person, Togetic or otherwise, who wouldn’t feel comfortable in her position. But that’s okay! Sunday is here, after all.
Sunday adjusts her sash before entering the room. Human children are waiting—Trayvon, Lucy, Carrie, Meryl, Brayden, and others. They break from their conversation and grin; they call Sunday over.
Sunday comes. Happiness is more than light and fluffy cotton candy! Sunday reminds herself as her friends pet and coo at her. She looks into their faces, so young and happy—though she knows smiles are rarer for them than they were before.
But that almost makes these more precious! Things aren’t always happy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t seek something to make you smile.
After an aide collects this group of friends, Sunday sets off through the hospital again. Happiness is always possible, Sunday likes to think. Not to say a person should feel guilty for not feeling happy! Sunday understand there are many unfortunate circumstances, and all emotions are valid and have their place. Soon, she comes to a door, and hesitates.
She pokes her head in to see a teenage boy assisted by Pokémon and humans. Jay. He grips pale-knuckled to a pair of bars, his face contorted in strain. He takes a single, labored step, then sees her. He scowls and barks in her direction, nearly losing his hold on the bars in the process. Two human helpers run to balance him while an Audino gestures Sunday out of the room.
In the hallway, Togetic leans against the wall, tilting her head back. There are some things she can’t understand, not having gone through them herself. All she can do is poke her head through the door, see a struggling face, and wait to see.
She moves on. In the next room, the human—Taylor—has tears trickling down their face. When they see Sunday, however, they blink. Sunday smiles. At the end of each trial, Sunday cheers. There is every reason to cheer! Taylor lets out a small laugh as the other helpers escort them across the room. When Taylor finally finishes, Sunday beams and runs through the air, dusting her path with a trail of glittering blue and white. Taylor grins back, holding out their hands. The sparkles pass through their fingers like nothing.
Sunday cares for them all, each person who comes here. She accompanies Taylor to the main room, where children smile at her presence and Taylor's. The others all ask Taylor how they did. Taylor is shy, but expresses pride as they tell what they accomplished. And they should be proud!
The children’s joy, their happiness, their kindness… those things can be dampened but not extinguished. There is something special about those who grit and cry and work their way through hardships, feeling lost, feeling hopeless, but deep down they know there is still joy to be had. They just need reminders and to find the path for themselves.
Togetic can’t understand, but she can try to help.
As the day wears to an end, Sunday waves goodbye to most of her friends. She floats through the quiet halls, searching, searching for where she can light even the smallest spark of that hope…
She comes to a door she has approached many times before. Holding her breath, she enters. In a darkened room, staring out a dark window, Jay sits alone, motionless until he notices her.
Jay stiffens as Sunday offers him a small smile. His hands are tight, his posture is off, and he sits in a wheelchair. Every once in a while, Jay goes blank. His eyes dim and his knuckles blanch; he stares at unwelcome memories playing on repeat. Sunday will never be able to truly know what these children feel, but…
She has to keep offering, right?
Slowly, Jay nods. Sunday comes into the room, head bowed. Jay looks back to the window, and Sunday looks with him. She doesn’t say or do anything; she knows that isn’t always necessary.
They sit together in silence. Eventually another aide calls Jay’s name. The aide finds him with Sunday, but makes no remark. She speaks softly to him, then nods to Sunday.
“I need to help Jay to bed now, Sunday. Thank you for all your work today.”
Sunday nods back, fluttering her wings in acknowledgment. The aide wheels Jay away. But before he passes through the door, his soft voice carries back to Sunday.
“Thanks.”
5.
It has been brewing throughout the day. Ace can smell it. His delicate nose picks up the scent of dark anxiety growing on his human’s skin. His white fur buzzes with sympathetic emotion. When the phone rings, Ace can only watch, voiceless, as Adam retreats to another room with it.
Ace whines quietly, flicking his tail back and forth. Snatches of his human’s muffled voice travel from across the house.
Eventually, Adam returns, his eyes red and swollen, his face down-turned and twitching.
Ace’s heart aches. He steps forward, barking softly, but Adam recoils. “Go ‘way.” Adam turns away; he brushes past a photo of a young human and a young Furfrou embracing as he half-flees the way he came.
Ace hesitates; he heard his human’s words. But the smell of sweat and panic. The tear in Adam’s voice.
Ace is supposed to help.
In the other room, his trainer paces. “Bad bad bad.” Adam’s hands are fists, bumping at his sides. “Badbadbad.” Too late, Ace should have—but there’s nothing he can do about it now. He barks gently, approaching.
But Adam whirls. "Stop. Away.” His voice shakes. At his side, his fingers clench and unclench until, abruptly, they fly open. "I’m bad bad badbadbad!"
Ace jumps forward just as Adam strikes himself—first open palms against the side of his head, then fists slamming into his temples as his face contorts.
Ace presses himself against his human’s side, trying to raise his voice over his trainer’s anguished bellows. Adam hits himself again. Ace reaches up, trying to nudge Adam’s arm.
Adam jerks away. His hands freeze, buried in his hair. “Away,” he says, voice hoarse and guttural. Now that Adam has stopped striking himself, Ace obeys, but Adam shouts, “Away!”
He lashes out, swinging his hand toward Ace.
It crashes against Ace’s head. Ace stumbles backward. His rear leg slams into a corner, sending a sharp burst of pain that makes him lose his balance. As he hits the ground, Adam howls and craters his fist into the drywall.
Heart pounding, head numbing, Ace staggers to his feet. Adam whirls around, gasping, shaking. His hands twitch before going to his head again. Ace whines—no, it’s okay, you’re okay and I’m okay. He stumbles to his trainer, reaching up an offering paw —
“I said AWAY!”
Adam’s red, tear-stained face flashes down on Ace before his foot connects with Ace’s torso. Ace crashes into the refrigerator, falls to the ground. His air is knocked from his chest. He wheezes, trying to regain it, but then Adam is screaming, kicking, kicking at Ace. Ace gasps, curls to protect his head and stomach, as Adam’s shoe slams into him again and again.
Ace bears it, whimpering—it’s okay, Adam, please—before a blow sends a ripping, jabbing pain through his side. Ace cries out, and Adam tears himself away. He retreats to the corner, making choking noises and clawing at his head.
Ace stifles his cry to a whimper. He sucks air into his lungs. No, it’s okay—he makes himself quiet. Adam sinks to the ground, bending over in anguished sobs.
Ace has to get up. He needs to get up. He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the hot pain in his chest. He limps to his human.
Adam turns away, muttering something incomprehensible. But no. Ace understands. It’s okay. Ace nudges Adam’s arm with his nose, whining, until, finally, Adam accepts him.
Tears wet Adam’s face. “I’m sorry,” he chokes as Ace worms into his lap. His hands dig into Ace’s fur, rub over his back and neck and ears. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m bad I’m bad I’m bad.” Adam says until he breaks into sobs again.
Ace curls into him, rubbing his head against his human. Eventually, Adam gasps out one last harsh breath. Ace stretches to kiss his face with his tongue.
It’ll be okay, Ace wants to say. Adam hugs him tightly, sending lancing pain through his torso.
You’re okay.
6.
Roots anchored in damp forest earth, pressed close against his siblings, Morelull watches the sun through the tangled branches. It reaches its zenith, shining down through a gap in the foliage, and Morelull closes his eyes. He drifts off, letting dreams carry him for a few more hours.
When he wakes up, the sky is dim and the sun is ambling toward its nightly resting place. It is not visible past the trees, but Morelull can sense the pale moon taking into the air.
Taking care not to wake his still-sleeping siblings, Morelull slips his roots from the ground and rises. He makes his way through the woods.
The human waits for Morelull where they always do. Morelull flashes his bulbs in the dusk air, and their lips turn upward—no color but still somehow exuding yellow and bright orange-red. Morelull hums in greeting and lands on their hands; one curls around him like welcoming roots, while the dead one only twitches.
The human speaks, quick noises with sparks of happiness. Morelull chirs. He takes into the air and bids the human to follow.
He found the place the previous night, a night when the human did not appear. Morelull returned to his siblings glowing blue. His siblings flashed warm colors to attempt to lift him, but his mood only waned until they came to a river, bubbling and chirping over banks of shining pebbles. Morelull cooed, expelling multicolored spores. His siblings offered yellows and a soft confused lavender in return. He skimmed the surface of the water until his siblings eased him away, to continue on through the forest.
Now, the human lets out a happy noise; Morelull lights his bulbs yellow in sharing. The human picks out rocks on the bank while Morelull crosses back and forth over the river. The bubbling water shimmers with Morelull's colors, and he flies over to show the human. With that yellow expression, the human waves their dead hand through the air while the other is clutched full of pebbles.
As the day darkens, the moon rising, the human removes the bag they carry on their back. They put their rocks inside, then call out to Morelull. Morelull obligingly floats into it; his colors fill the small space. The human carries Morelull like this, Morelull flashing and, when downwind from the human, releasing colored spores for the human to turn and watch.
When they approach a human-scented, straight-walled, sharp-cornered structure, the human gently pushes Morelull down, making a rustling sound with their lips. Morelull turns off his bulbs and closes his eyes.
Eventually, there’s the soft creak of something moving and then settling firmly into place. Morelull hovers from the bag. The human smiles and waves, then walks to a black box which sits on a wood platform. They tap the box and tilt their head questioningly.
Morelull chitters, bouncing through the air. The human laughs and turns on the music.
The sounds are like starry skies, sparkling auras reverberating through the air. Morelull can close his eyes and pretend he's floating high, soaring among the cosmos. He brushes against the human’s hair, and they laugh their yellow laugh.
They and Morelull flow to the music before Morelull grows tired and floats down to the soft platform where the human sleeps. The human takes the stones from their bag, lays them out in a neat line in front of the black box.
Once they finish, they take one to Morelull. Morelull floats up to examine it. One hand flapping, the human makes their noises. The particular pebble they brought has a gray-pink color, and Morelull glows his bulbs that same shade.
Outside air flows in through an opening. The sky beyond is dark. Eventually, the human looks outside and holds out their hand. Morelull lands on it gingerly. It's the dead hand.
Morelull dims his bulbs and puffs them out, wriggling his tendrils. Lightly, he digs in. A small line of energy flows from the human into him; Morelull never takes much, but he never knows how this makes the human feel. The human's face isn't yellow, but happy anyway. Content.
Soon, Morelull floats away, glowing the light green of gratitude.
The human bobs their head. They touch something to darken the lights and lie on their soft platform.
Morelull floats backward towards the opening to the outside as the human watches. This is the nightly goodbye, the farewell until Morelull sees if the human turns up the next day. Morelull’s bulbs light, then quiver. Glowing, multicolored spores float into the room.
On their platform, the human stares wide-eyed; they reach out a hand as the spores swirl in the air…
(Each time Morelull returns from his visit, he tells his siblings of his human. His siblings always respond with that yellow and pale purple. Not quite understanding, but accepting. They try to see him, see what lights him those bright colors. One night, his sister approached him.
It is like us and the trees, she said. They grow high, stretching into the sky, and we take their energy. In return, we protect them and keep them strong. Together, we live well and content. That is you and your human. You are the tree, and the human is the Morelull.
Morelull pulsed soft blue. My human sometimes feels like the tree.
Sister floated skyward, emitting a deeper blue. You can be both, your human and you.)
The human’s eyes flutter as the spores fall onto them. Their breaths slow as the spores dissolve. Soon, the human lies still and quiet, but emits a scent of dreams, yellow and green and blue. Morelull hovers in the air, pulsing the same.
Finally, Morelull leaves until the next day.
