Work Text:
The walk from his home in Cabo Poco, which kissed the southern ocean rather sloppily, to the esteemed and downright ancient Naranja Academy took him about an hour. Leisurely, he would walk along old, tamped down footpaths and cobblestone paved walkways, enjoying the sights of Pokémon, people, and nature alike. He was used to them, and yet, after all of his travels, Florian found the mundane, southern Paldean flora and fauna refreshing. While he had no ill will towards the life of Kitakami and his prior venture, Blueberry Academy, there was just something indescribable about how he felt towards the places he had visited. Over hills and a bridge he would walk, and all he could do was reminisce on what he had done, on what dazzling heights he had reached, and on what terrifying events those around him had gone through. And yet, those memories washed out of his mind as he crossed the threshold that separated the outside world from Mesagoza, the Paldean Capital and home to Naranja Academy itself.
As he and a few other students left Mesagoza's southern gate behind them, the smattering of rain already above them grew worse. His umbrella, cheap by Galarian standards and a premium everywhere else, helped to ground him as he lugged himself home. He didn't envy the three others with him; they were close friends with each other in age and locale to boot, but they did remind him of Nemona. She wasn't some lost love, or even a horrid ex-girlfriend, but she was his rival and the one who had inspired him to not just reach, but actually grab onto the stars. Now, she was busy with Geeta, starting her own journey towards being the Top Champion of Paldea. He wasn't jealous of her by any means, but he did miss her. She certainly made the walk home more eventful.
As it would turn out, Nemona's presence wasn't required in order for that day's walk to be of note. In fact, she likely would've thought that the statue sitting on the bench, drenched in the rain, was an oddity and nothing more. However, it sat on a bench that Florian himself sat on for a couple minutes just that morning, and he knew for certain that there wasn't anything sitting with him, person or Pokémon. Furthermore, the statue wasn't of a major figure in Paldean history, not that Florian would know that, but rather a close friend of his. He does not even want to guess at how Kieran had traveled to Paldea, but that doesn't matter. Kieran is here, and calling him soggy would be an understatement.
While his hair somehow kept its shape, appearing as though an onion was merely washed instead of soaked, peeled, and assembled back together in a much flatter façade of itself, his clothes were translucent. The thick, white coat that Florian had learned was issued to all Blueberry students was clinging to his arms with everything its got, while his red tank top looked smeared upon him, more akin to paint than any actual fabric. The entirety of Kieran's skin was slightly wrinkled, in the way all kids’ fingers ended up after they had spent too much time taking a bath, and yet he had also cried. It must have ended before the rain even began, as the faint tracks left behind were the only somewhat dry part of his body.
Even as Florian had leaned in, shifting his umbrella such that it covered Kieran more than it covered himself, he saw no movement from his friend, save the soft, even breath he still had. His eyes didn't shift from their far off, unfocused stare, nor did he react with a jolt or a jump when Florian had gone to check his pulse. For all intents and purposes, Kieran really was a statue. With a soft, rarely used voice, “Hey, Kieran?” asked Florian, “May I carry you?” He wasn't expecting an answer at this point, but he didn't care. He wasn't an expert, but he knew he needed to help his friend out. He could hazard a guess as to how long Kieran had sat out in the rain, but that did not matter. What mattered was that his friend couldn't take care of himself, and while Florian was sick and tired of being the one everyone relied upon, he couldn't ever put that habit of his down for long.
With slow and measured steps, he hooked his arms around Kieran's waist, and gasped. The clothes he had worn were very good at lying about one's physique, and the truth they hid was a waist that was shockingly thin. Florian's arms should not have been able to wrap around him so tightly like they did, but they did. Balancing an umbrella in one hand, while simultaneously holding an entire, apparently malnourished person in your arms, was no easy task, but Florian made it look easy. He had to, but that was more so because he forgot to ask his Pokémon for assistance. Kieran was light to the point of it being a genuine health concern, yes, but he was still around one hundred pounds or so.
Kieran was water, slipping out of Florian's bear hug of a grip. It was all too much, and he had to change his plans. And so, with a grunting whoop, Kieran was tossed just high enough for Florian to securely lock his arms under his ass. He sat akin to a backwards facing car seat, and didn't make a sound bar his continued, even breath. Florian didn't care that his view consisted of an utterly drenched tank top, showcasing the boy's body within, since he knew this route like the back of his hand. Sure, it was hard to remember exactly when he was supposed to make a right turn into his cul-de-sac, but it was normal for people to be flushed embarrassed at the sight of another boy's chest, right?
Whatever his worries were did not matter. What mattered was Kieran, and not the rain smashing along his back. When the house and its worn brick and clay exterior came into view, Florian leant in and whispered, “We're almost there,” knowing that it would fall on deaf ears. It didn't matter, not when the heat of his own face helped distract him from his friend's eerily steady pulse. The chill of the rain on his back, the heat of his front, and the stone that made his arms tingle in a way he only heard others describe couldn't be too much. Not now, not when he is needed more than ever.
Arven, Penny, and Nemona all needed him in some way, but they never needed him, relied on him as if their life itself required his assistance. Kieran's might as well have, given how hard Florian's foot was kicking his own door in. His mother's irate concern passed through him like the cold wind through the air conditioner's grate, its whirr deafening him to his own voice. Blinded still by an all encompassing chest that's sitting on towels on the couch, there isn't much he can do.
A battle, not unlike his true battle with Nemona, demanded everything he had, in ways no fight ever did before. He never had to fuss over a mannequin as he dried its hair, or carry it to the bathroom to slowly peel off its clothes. And yet he does. The slick, unkempt hair meshes poorly with towel after towel, while every layer removed makes him gag at the disrepair he couldn't help prevent. He should have known what was going on, if only so he could be the reliable friend for someone else as well.
Risk after risk find themselves meticulously picked and planned away. The towel is the softest and his favorite, and it's the only one he will use again for his friend. He can't fathom drowning Kieran in more rain, so a slow, explained bath is drawn. He couldn't bear to force what must be a stranger to Kieran to deal with his privates, so he closed his eyes and tried his best to be gentle. No caressing, massaging, or canoodling to be seen, since he's too focused on making sure Kieran isn't stung in the eyes by soap. He won't allow this to happen again, not when he could be a better influence, a better friend.
Most of his clothes fit Kieran loosely, so he isn't too saddened by their absence. He knows it ought to be temporary, just as he knows it won't be. Penny's fiery friend wears her boyfriend's sweater as though it's her own, and Kieran's a friend, so it's the same, even when Penny's friend wouldn't dare towel off her boyfriend for him in his time of need. Maybe it isn't the same, then.
No matter. If she can't be forward with her intentions, and explain what she's doing before she does them, then maybe she isn't that great of a friend to her boyfriend. He won't say a word of it, of course, since he's too busy making sure Kieran isn't hurt when he puts the shirt on him, but if it's the thought that counts, then his thoughts are counting for days. They count as Kieran muttered something so… nothing.
And yet it's everything. It's everything he could've wanted and more and more and more again. It's everything that told Florian that his work wasn't for nothing, that Kieran wasn't a corpse walking, and, most importantly, that he was right to take him in. He's too tired to yip and cheer and dance all around the house like he's an excited little kid all over again, but he's happy to be this tired. He's happy that Kieran wiggled just slightly whenever he's picked up. He's happy to be able to see his friend's eyes look at him.
Florian waited still. He didn't want to eat yet. He would wait as long as he could hold himself at bay, or until his Pokémon forced him to give in. He just didn't want to eat in front of Kieran until he too could eat. He knew it's not exactly right of him to starve himself like this, but he doubted he could seriously keep anything down anyways. He just wanted Kieran to be able to eat anything.
Even soup, as disgusting as Florian found it. It would be cold, but it wouldn't be wasted. It didn't matter what it actually was, since Kieran was blinking and breathing more than a rock. He wasn't just surviving; he was living, and he was living so much that Florian had to hold himself in his own seat. He didn't want to be too much, but maybe he already was. Maybe he was too much for washing Kieran clean, for carrying him to his house, for being there when no one else would. He would be too much again if he had to, so he held himself back. He didn't want to be too much again, but he would squeal just that teeny little bit when he saw Kieran slowly bring the spoon to his mouth. He deserved that much.