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Bede has never had someone to care about him. To care, fully and without reserve. To care, without ulterior motives.
As long as Bede can remember, care has been occassional and tight handed and entirely conditional.
The Chairman adopts Bede at a young age, fits him with everything he might need, and gifts him his very first Pokemon– but Bede is still little more than a Dewpider in Oleana's web.
But that web is his whole Universe, and Bede wants nothing more than to prove he deserves it. Every hanging star and shining nebulae freely gifted to him.
So, Chairman Rose wanted Wishing stars.
Bede collected Wishing stars.
Rose wanted him to win, and so Bede put everything he had into excelling.
The Chairman wants him to go home. So Bede does, treks back to Hammerlocke with wet, teary eyes, head hung low; with fists clenched and teeth gnashing.
Rose is disappointed in him, he says, and Bede wipes away globs of tears with both fists. But Champions in the making, even Disqualified ones, didn't cry.
"Nonsense," His soon to be actual-kidnapper retorts, sharp tongued as ever. "Whoever taught you that rubbish?"
Bede frowns reflexively. He was already frowning, of course, having just had his world uprooted in the course of a day, but it deepens considerably.
Miss Opal hardly looks at him (she hasn't really, since they started their trek from Hammerlocke to Ballonlea, since she glanced, gushing, at his pink jacket and plucked him off the side of the road like last week's Vullaby meat).
Not that Bede would call it pink, because it wasn't- his jacket was purple; magenta, at the most. Miss Opal, colorblind old bat that she was, clearly couldn't tell the difference.
Bede's shoulders hunch, and he glances away, further down the Route.
"Oh, nevermind, dearie." She waves him off, clicking her tongue, "I imagine I already know who." Disapproval drips from her words like poison, something rather inappropriate for a trainer boasting their Fairy type propensity.
But it's the hateful edge, that gets Bede: because everyone loves Chairman Rose, and what could he possibly do for them not to?
"You don't know him like I do," Bede snaps, before he can think to stop himself.
Opal just laughs, one of those long, cackling, grating laughs.
"If only," Opal whispers, wistful.
"It is by willingly accepting our vulnerability that we showcase our strength," Is all she offers, afterwards.
But she glances at him, finally, even stops walking, putting the base of her umbrella directly in the path of his knees, and there's this look she gives him.
It's hard to make out in the half dark, in the pale fluorescence of mushrooms and faerie magic, but Bede is certain she's smiling.
She wipes away another stray tear with her thumb, before it can fall, hand cupping his cheek, for a fleeting moment. "Cry as much as you want, as often as you need; this–" a few more tears are wiped away with gnarled, ancient fingers, and she presses a kiss to his forehead, featherlight and tickling, before he can pull away, "this is your strength, young one."
She offers one more elusive smile, pats him on the shoulder, and then turns rather abruptly on her heel, pace brisk as before.
Bede remains glued where he stands, completely and utterly stunned.
She sees the untapped potential, which Dear Old Rose has squandered. She gazes upon Bede, her boy, and sees beyond measure all the good he can do. He glitters as if bathed in stardust.
"You'll learn the ways of Pink, yet," Opal informs him, entirely unruffled.
He glances at her with eyes of star pieces, wishing stones, brimming potential. They narrow, glaring. His darling Ponyta, stirred into activity by the ire of its trainer, nuzzles against his palm.
Bede gently pats its muzzle even as he glares daggers at Opal.
Opal hides her knowing smile behind her tea cup.
The first time Opal says she's disappointed in him to Bede, Bede is being, admittedly, frustrating. But Bede is often frustrating and Bede doesn't see what's different about this time.
Why wait?
If she really wanted to be rid of him, she could have done it a long time ago.
Why wait until now, once he's started to settle, once he's finally become comfortable. (He likes it here; He doesn't want to leave).
Opal hugged him last week, and Bede, stupid, idiotic Bede, let her. And now, Opal is finally, finally realizing what the rest of Galar always knew- that he's much too much trouble than he's worth.
He watched rubble rain, watched ancient stone fall as hail at his feet, and it felt right at the time, as Destructive as it was.
"I'm disappointed," Opal remarked, and her tone was soft, but to Bede it sounded razor-sharp, piercing to his very core. She recalls her Alcremie to it's pokeball casually, as if she didn't just cut him to the quick. "A fairy type leader must know how to lose graciously," She adds, and it's unspoken, but Bede could fill in the rest.
You're unfit.
You're clearly unfit to be a Gym Challenger, Rose said, and Bede's world fractures, rains down in fractal glass and sandal crushed stardust, and it's just the same.
Never again, Bede decided, snapping and snarling, because it hurt. He'd been ripped open before, and it hurt.
And now, she's sending him away.
The burn of betrayal, of spurned hopes, fizzles hot and bitter in Bede's mouth, because Miss Opal promised.
"Just say it already," Bede hisses, huffing and heaving through clenched teeth, great ball clatched deathly tight in his fingers. "Say you're rejecting me."
Tears well up in his eyes. He's shaking; So angry, poor dear.
He expects to be scolded.
Bede is completely taken aback when she clasps his shoulder, instead.
Opal's gaze softens.
"Never, my child." She shuffles across the pitch, takes the rattling great ball from his fingers. "I would never. Now, I believe that's enough training for one day. I'm certain you've worked up a thirst, all that battling. Fetch the teapot from the cupboard and I'll make your favorite tea."
"We're stopping early?" Bede raises an eyebrow. He's still shaking, still angry, still a bottle fit to pop.
"Less questions, child. Unless you're ready for a quiz now, hmm?"
He grumbles and stalks off.
Bede is silent during tea break. His eyes remain glued to the table cloth. Opal elects to give him space.
Once his tea cup is drained Bede jumps from the table as if there are flames at his heels. He flees to his room.
He doesn't come out the next two days.
When Opal does peer into his room to check up on him the afternoon of the second day, he's seated on the floor, drawers flung open, bag seated in front of him.
"Bede?" She notices the pokeballs collected in a semicircle at his feet. His posters have been torn off the wall, leaving even more carnelian pink exposed. "What are you doing?"
"Packing," The boy spat, "Since my stay here is surely ending."
Opal laughs, softly, seating herself on the edge of his bed. "Who told you that? Are the Morelull whispering again? I think I'd remember if–"
Bede's jaw clenches. "No, but you… it's been too long."
"Oh?"
His eyebrows furrow together, and his eyes screw shut, in this obviously, exceedingly frustrated way that highlights just how young he is, still. Still so expressive, so embroiled.
"You'll want me gone, soon. Best if I just leave now."
Leave?
When he belongs here, with Opal?
"Where will you go?" She asks, a faint twinkle in her eye.
"I dunno?" He stuffs another shirt in his bag. "Corviknight taxi to Hammerlocke, probably."
She thinks of the labyrinthine stadium, the spires of cutting steel, and frowns in dissatisfaction.
"Corviknight taxis don't land here, dear." Not within the circle, anyway. "The glow deters them, you understand."
Bede huffs, then shrugs as if unphased. "I'll walk, then. Hatterene needs the stretch."
"Or you could decide to stay, dearest."
Bede's shoulders hunch, hands stilling, hovering over his bag, still clasped around an unused pokeball belt. The boy's lip wobbles, and he squares his jaw.
"I can't," He mutters, little more than a half strangled hiss.
"You can, if you wish." She kneels down on the floor beside him. "I would never make you leave, dear."
Bede looks entirely unconvinced, mouth twisted and eyes still misty wet. "That's never been true before," He mutters half into his hand, as he wipes away snot with the back of his palm. Bitter, bitter, bitter like poison stowed away in sheathes of rose.
No one's ever wanted me before.
That would not do, Opal decides. Not for her child, her boy.
"Bede," She calls, soft but firm, and the boy glances sharply up, clearly baffled. Satisfied that she's successfully gained his attention, Opal continues patiently. "I haven't gone through all this trouble to have you, to not keep you, child. That is one thing you need not concern yourself with."
Bede blinks up at her. "You mean it… you, you won't send me away?"
"Never, my boy." She kisses him on the forehead, again, and it's just as odd as before but… Bede doesn't mind. "You have my word and a lady never breaks that. It's oh so hard to put back together, after all."
Opal notices the watch, still dangling against his wrist, sharp steel and ornate gold. She's convinced him to shed the jacket, though he still returns to it when he needs comfort, when his greatest desire is to vanish within it's magenta folds and violet pockets.
She allows it, even if it's not in quite the shades of pink she'd like best for him- in time, his need for it will lessen and eventually, entirely diminish.
The watch is different. It's steel edges cut into her child in a way Opal absolutely can't stand.
(Etched underneath the face is the logo for Macro Cosmos, a message from Chairman Rose etched along the bottom edge, tarnished from age and the chaff of skin). Belonging, it says, except it's nearly a size too large, dangling off his wrist as if it were made for someone else. As if Rose took it from elsewhere, repurposed it and dropped it in the child's lap, the same way he plucked Bede off the street all those ages ago. Convenience, is what is whispered, in the dark, folded away edges no one, no one, wished to glance under.
Opal– Opal searches long and tirelessly, hand picks this child from a sea of candidates. She sees in him an invaluable quality.
He is loudly, unapologetically himself. Bede. Mulberry Pink.
The bracelet is celosia wheat, hand braided by fingers swollen at the joints that somehow, perhaps through magic alone, still manage a unique nimbleness. She bestows it upon him during tea break, between Fairy Boot Camp lessons, ensconced in the warmth of string lights and steaming cups.
Bede stares at her, surprised. Then, guardedly suspicious. He glares at the gift, still left dangling from her fingers, as if it were some cleverly disguised trap, some scheme meant to wound him.
"It's impolite to keep a lady waiting," She reminds him, not impatiently.
Bede is also very, very much afraid. This much, Opal knows.
"There is no trick here, child. Not that you are obligated to believe so," Opal says, when she reaches toward his arm, and he jerks away; because it's important he understands that his unwavering faith is not a requirement.
Unquestioning loyalty, is not a requirement.
Question everything, she tells him, she allows him, that first day, because Opal is not Rose. Nor is she Oleana. Opal understands that for the sake of his success, and for their long term bond, there must be a sturdy foundation of trust built.
It is a leaning tower, her poor boy, one that must promptly be steadied before it topples.
She leaves her hand down, palm up on the table. Open, waiting.
"I only ask that you remain respectful, whatever you do," She pauses, watches as he pulls further away, sinking into the back of his chair. "I only wish to see how it fits, dearie."
"Fine," He mutters. His fingers snake subtly to his wrist, finding their way into the space beneath the watch's face, pressing lightly into the skin there.
Opal waits until he's settled. He gives a quiet nod, the go ahead, and she gladly takes his left hand in hers, carefully turns his arm so that the watch is facing the tabletop, taking his wrist in her grip.
She takes to fastening the bracelet in short order.
"Now was that so hard, hmm?"
Opal pretends not to see the pleased curl at the edge of Bede's mouth as he regards it, the way it clings tight to his wrist, the pink of the thread.
Once tied properly it is, inevitably, a perfect fit.
As if Opal would settle for less.
"Lovely," Opal murmurs, approvingly, when she sees Bede step out of the changing room wearing the uniform she'd given him, draped in her chosen shades of pink and blue.
Lavender pink is particularly fitting, on him; Opal gleams with pride. Affection.
Care.
"I refuse to battle wearing a dress," Bede grouses, entirely petulant, grabbing a fistful of the edge, glaring hotly at the fabric. "Ma 'am," He adds reluctantly, a tight mouthed afterthought.
Opal pinches his cheek. "You'll make this gym so proud."
"Oh," Bede replies, clearly caught off guard, shocked into near silence.
"I'm already so proud of you, child," She adds, rather softly.
"So, the jacket's pink, right?" Gloria asks, rubbing the smooth, weathered edge of the stone in her hands with her thumb.
Bede wears a blank tee, pale pink and bunched at the corners. He's lighter, somehow.
"Yeah, it's definitely pink," He says, tossing a skipping stone across the Lake of Outrage. It bounces thrice and sinks. The Sylveon entangled at his feet yips in excitement. "Bede pink, anyway."
Gloria laughs. "That's the best kind."