"Spring Will Come, in Time" by Fugthimble for Kingdra

[pokemod]

Recipient: kingdra
Title: Spring Will Come, In Time
Author: fugthimble / manhattan
Rating: K+
Verse: Game, Black/White Verse
Characters/Pairings: Black, White, White’s Mom, Cheren, Bianca
Summary: She listens to him talk until the clouds part, until dawn greets them with pale sunshine, until Black’s head droops and leans on her shoulder. — BlackWhite
Content Notes: Vague politics, (underage) drinking

—

Spring Will Come, In Time

—

The new champion is a boy her age, brown-haired and still growing.

White is at home when the news blare insistently across the living room; her mother sits beside her while the anchorwoman begins, looking livid as she plays with her wedding ring. Because White is unashamedly interested in boys, her first thought is: wow, he's cute! But then she notices how strained his smile is, how his eyes flow down like disappointed waterfalls, how small and hunched his shoulders are when he is ushered into the Champion's room.

"He doesn't look happy," says White, thinking about her own team of pokémon, thinking about holding her ground against the Elite Four. Thinking 'bout fireworks and fists pumped in the air. Not anguish bottled inside a brunet.

Her mother's fingers keep circling that golden band on her finger, and White only ever sees her like this before she gets an important case. She leans back on the couch, takes a deep breath. Waits.

"He's from Nuvema, too," her mother finally says. What White hears is, that could've been you. She doesn't get why her mother sounds relieved. She also doesn't ask.

—

She seeks out the tabloids for the first time in her life.

White is, admittedly, sort of disconnected from real life. Most trainers are – there are no chargers in the wild, and sometimes a forest's peace and quiet is all she needs, anyway, so why bother? Her mother disapproves, iron lady that she is, but White always answers her calls, so she never nags for long.

But family is family. It's not the same with gossip. White doesn't care who's gym leader as long as their gyms don't change places, and a new champion seems okay, too, with what Alder getting old and soft – or so one of the competitive battling magazines seems to think. To be honest, she doesn't think Alder looks soft at all, but to each his own, right? She glances at the sliced apple on her plate and turns the page, setting down her glass.

Today, her mother has risen early, so the only company White has for breakfast is the gossipy magazine she has spread across the kitchen counter.

Black stands in the centerfold, a challenging stance that doesn't reach his eyes. White thinks the press doesn't get it: Black looks so much softer than Alder. Like a peach, maybe. That would explain why the press sinks her thirsty mouth on him so swiftly, reaching for information like a vampire for an artery.

Out of his two best friends, White recognizes one – the one grumpy, quiet kid she shared her nap hour with during kindergarten – along with the town's resident professor (Juniper gave White her starter pokémon, too). She skims it, feeling bored, and her eyes almost skid to a halt when she is greeted by a soft wave of green hair and pale skin.

It's N – this, she knows. The son of the madman willing to condemn them to a cold, sterile life. He looks thin, and breezy, like a wisp of spring wind could topple him over, but the only picture they have of him is clearly hijacked from a crappy security camera, so White assumes he's not that much a pushover.

"Sources tell us that N and Black struck an odd friendship during their travels," White mutters, her finger following the sentence, "but their camaraderie came to a tragic end when Black put a stop to Plasma's reign of terror."

Ah.

Fruit bruises so easily, White thinks, sliding an apple slice into her mouth.

—

Black steps down after two weeks. The newspapers and the blogging platforms who don't employ savvy trainers explode with exclamation points and confusion, outrage, hysteria. White feels unsurprised, basically, and only shrugs when her mother asks her about it.

"He wasn't official," she explains casually, one foot on the coffee table. Her mother glares at her and White sets it down sheepishly. "N's battle with Alder was illegal, so Black didn't defeat the actual champion. If Black wants to become champion, he'll have to defeat Alder fair and square."

"Bureaucracies," her mother sighs, on her way to the kitchen. "Well, he's free to try again."

White nods slowly. She wonders if Black wants to, and then shakes her head, feeling stupid – she doesn't even know him. And does it even matter what he wants? He's a hero, now. He's stopped belonging to himself. Has he realized it? From the way he's so curtly quit the job anyone in Unova would kill to have, White assumes so.

"I wonder what he's going to do, now," she says, a little distracted by the breathtaking arch of flames Black's emboar draws across N's klinklang. The recorded segments of the battle have been aired at least once every day since Plasma's downfall. She's watched all of them – Black is really, really good. He could be champion, White thinks, but he probably doesn't want to, anymore. Not now.

"Isn't it obvious?" her mother replies, from the kitchen. "He's going to take a break from training."

—

White supposes it's a little obvious, in the end, when she runs into him on the bus stop.

Her serperior has stayed home today, refusing to help her with grocery shopping, but her gurdurr doesn't mind carrying the bags for her. At least someone cares, is what she's in the middle of ranting, brushing humid hair out of her eyes with an annoyed flick of the wrist. And then she notices him, staring at her from the opposite side of the bus stop.

She swallows down the rest of the tirade she had been planning on biting out, still miffed at her serperior, and tucks in her elbows, one hand over the other. Black looks better in person, is what she'd say if it were the case. He looks tired and wet and nothing like a champion. She imagines him smiling, full of life and warmth, and has to contain herself from reaching out and spreading her fingers across his cheek.

Her gurdurr groans curiously, craning its neck to take a better look, and White feels herself flush, but Black doesn't react negatively. The rain seems to freeze for a second when he smiles, really smiles, eyes on gurdurr's; then he raises a hand and pats him in the snout.

"Yours?" he asks, in a voice that sounds a little worn-out, but is otherwise jovial and strong. It still sounds nothing like the angry calls and the cold commands in the League recording. It fits him better, too, being warm and sunny instead of blistering and dark.

"Y-Yes!" she squeaks, straightening.

Black doesn't reply, just lets his hand drop. It's wet, glistening dimly in the afternoon light, and White wonders if the rain has caught him by surprise. She shakes her umbrella, once more acclimated to Nuvema's moody weather, and purses her lips.

"Um," she ventures, hoping her ponytail isn't lopsided, or anything, gosh, she didn't even check herself out in the mirror before leaving, how could she, "if you'd like, you can take it." She hands him the umbrella, holding it out awkwardly. "The umbrella, I mean. Um."

He looks surprised – though not offended. White continues treading softly through the one-sided conversation.

"It's just, my house is like two steps away from my stop, and, um, I won't use it anyway, so—"

"Thanks," Black cuts in, with a smile that dries the water off her skin and heats up the spaces between her bones. "I appreciate it."

His fingers brush against hers when he takes it from her, and White feels a tiny skip of her stomach, but she only nods, grinning back at him. She wants to ask him if he's tired or sad or is it both, wants to ask him what it's like, being forced to choose the fate of a nation at the young age of sixteen, wants to ask him out for dinner and a movie and a peck on the cheek.

She doesn't. The way he steps away from her when he's done petting her gurdurr speaks volumes, and she's always been a good listener; they wait for the bus in silence, but it's not as awkward as White had expected it to be.

—

"I can't believe this," her mother huffs, upon entering, her keys still chirping in her hand. "It's just preposterous, isn't it? How can we even take this seriously?"

White looks up from her scrambled eggs, mouth full. She must make a face (it's unusual for her other to be so cranky), because her mother just sighs, completely deflating on her way to the stool. The older woman props her elbows on it and rests her head.

"On the house," White says, pushing her orange juice towards her mother. "What's up? Did your boss put you in another night case?"

"I wish he had," her mother says morosely, taking a sip. "The Nuvema PD has to interrogate Black." She rolls her eyes, but it's less like whatever and more like I disagree severely with the state of affairs. White is sympathetic and confused. "Ghetsis and N both evaded capture. Black is the only link the police has to the high ranks."

"I doubt he'll know anything," White replies, and can't quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. "He helped us, remember? I don't think he's going to just flip out and turn dark."

But when she finishes her sentence, she realizes it's actually not very surprising if he would. White stabs at her eggs, managing to fork a piece of sausage. Her mother sighs again.

"He's just a boy. I think it admirable he managed so much – there was so much the police couldn't do." White remembers her mother's strained voice and expression plastered on her Xtransceiver, remembers something about not being able to arrest anyone until they did something, and purses her lips. "And now we're supposed to badger him even more."

"The press will have a field day again."

Her mother just nods, swallowing the rest of the orange juice.

—

"Thanks," a voice cuts in, through the orange glow of the afternoon. White tenses, startled, a hand already making its way towards her belt, but then Black smiles and her hand flops back to her hip instead. He's handing her umbrella, standing in the exact spot where White gave it to him.

"You're welcome!" she replies brightly, taking back her umbrella. It's not wrecked, or anything, but White's not sure if she would mind, even if it were. "Going to catch the bus?"

Black shakes his head.

"I was kinda hoping you would be here," he answers, with a shrug. "I don't like keeping other people's stuff."

He sounds so normal. If not for the television, for the press, for the privacy loss that comes with it all, White would think he was just a trainer. A regular someone, not weighed down with choices and national security. The bags under his eyes have blurred slightly, she notices, though they're still there.

"Oh," she says, feeling warm despite herself, "you didn't have to – I mean, I wouldn't mind, or anything. It's just an umbrella."

"You don't have to treat me so nicely, you know." He's smirking, now, and White wonders if it's still winter, because she'd like to be wearing something fresher. Like a bikini. "Do I really look that terrible?"

She freezes, all thoughts of summer discarded.

"I—" she starts, in a panic, because she figures maybe he's been pitied by everyone who's come across him, and maybe he's tired of it. "I wasn't—I was just being polite," she manages, finally, her voice hitching a little at the end. Like a question whose answer she's not sure of.

Black's smirk fades. He looks away, clearing his throat.

"Sorry," he says, then. His brown hair looks lovely in the orange sunlight and the way it frames his face makes his cheekbones jut out. The camera might not add five pounds but it takes away from his handsomeness. He looks back at her and she averts her eyes, embarrassed to have been caught staring. "Just thought – you know. I dunno."

"I'm White," she says, extending a hand and hitting him with the umbrella. There's a beat; she blanches, but he laughs, and takes her hand.

"I'm Black," he says, like she doesn't already know.

—

Black is a frequent user of the bus stop; they meet at least twice or thrice a week. White wonders if it's because of her, in a secret, gushy kind of way, up until the point she realizes it's because the bus drives by the police station. That's a little depressing, but Black doesn't choose to fly there instead and she'll take what she can get.

Is it still a celebrity crush when you're starting to get to know them? White feels confused and kind of manipulative, but she doesn't know why. She's not stalking him, or anything, but maybe she'd better stop fantasizing about how soft his hair looks and start caring about how he feels instead.

White's never had many friends; she has six that mean the world to her, but pokémon aren't the kind of company who would understand human darkness and how it consumes you. Or are they? She makes a mental note to ask her team about Black's situation when they're alone, and then says:

"Wanna grab a cup of coffee?"

Black, standing on his side of the bus stop, looks at her. He looks a little surprised.

"I mean – if you don't have anything else to do," which is stupid because why would he be waiting for the bus if he didn't? She feels suddenly dumb.

Black looks at his watch instead of making fun of her, though, and then smiles.

"I'd like that."

She smiles back without even realizing it.

—

The café they find is small, cozy, and empty. Black orders a glass of water and White asks for a cappuccino and a slice of pie. She eats slowly, because she feels a little shy sharing a table with a composed ex-Champion, but she eats the whole thing and still asks for another.

“Here you go, another slice of pecha pie,” chirps the waitress, too distracted to notice who, exactly, she’s serving. Black reaches for his wallet and White almost chokes on the bite she’s having as she struggles with her jean’s pockets.

“Mmm!” she says eloquently, signaling him to put his wallet down. Black just shrugs and smiles, putting his wallet away.

“I don’t mind,” he says, when the waitress has left. He doesn’t seem to talk much around other people, White notices, and feels a little flattered even though she should probably feel concerned. “I’m kind of well in life at the moment, if you haven’t noticed.”

Of course she’s noticed. He might not be champion anymore, but she’s sure he was well-paid during those two weeks.

“Oh, um, still, it’s okay! I have an allowance I’m not using at the moment.” She takes a bite. “I’m taking a break from training, myself. Winters are way too chilly to be prancing around in the wild.”

“True that,” Black replies easily, bringing his glass of water to his mouth. It’s half-full (White is a positive person). “I have to say I kind of miss being out there, though.”

“I totally understand,” she says, between large chunks of pie, momentarily forgetting she wants to look good in front of him. “After a while it just gets – I dunno, stifling? Like getting chained.”

Black nods, a faraway look in his eyes.

“I never did get to go on, after the League.” White chokes on her food, plays it off by sipping her cappuccino. She’s never, ever, ever heard him comment on anything related to the incident before. Not on television, not on paper, not on anything. She wonders how she’s supposed to react. “I could go, if I wanted to, but—I dunno. I don’t really feel like it.”

I understand, is what she wants to say, but she really can’t. White is free as a bird – the only thing weighing against her is her mother’s concern for cold and frostbite and it’s almost Christmas, so White wants to spend it with her.

“Mm,” she says instead. “You should do what you feel like. Otherwise, won’t you just feel terrible?”

Black looks thoughtful.

“I suppose,” he says slowly, looking out the window of the café. Outside, it’s gray and misty, a sure sign of lousy weather to come.

—

“Snow day!” White shouts, from the bottom of the stairs. Her mother groans something at her – she’s usually a morning person, getting up at ungodly hours to get to work on time, but Sundays are sacred. White likes annoying her sometimes, though, so she runs up the stairs and jumps into her mother’s bed. “It’s snowing, mom,” she adds, balancing herself on two knees, rocking the mattress.

“I’m still on time to return your Christmas presents,” her mother says, from beneath her pillow.

White briskly returns to the kitchen.

She turns on the radio with a flick of her finger; it’s the time of year to listen to jingling and caroling, and she hums tunes under her breath as she mixes the pancake batter. She’s flipping her third pancake when the news come in, interrupting (rather rudely) a jolly Christmas tune.

“Breaking news,” says the radio host, in a rush. “The former champion of Unova has been marked missing by the Nuvema PD, and his whereabouts are currently unknown. If you have any information you consider useful, please dial the following number—“

She tunes out, looking ahead blankly until the smell of burnt pancake filters up her nose.

—

White’s Xtransceiver has four numbers in it. Her mother’s, Professor Juniper’s, the Nuvema PD’s (which she only calls when her mother doesn’t pick up), and the emergency hotline. That’s why White never looks at the ID before she picks up – it’s either Mom or Prof. Juniper, for sure.

At three in the morning, it’s definitely her mother, so she answers with a garbled ‘what’ and then groans, getting up from her bed.

“Sorry to wake you up,” says someone who is definitely male, and White freezes, aware that she’s wearing the tackiest pajamas ever. “I – uh, I guess I didn’t really think this through.”

“Black,” White whispers, ignoring the fact that she’s a fashion disaster at the moment, focusing on his tired eyes and slow sentences, “are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” says Black, wobbling. She’s horrified; he’s underage and if the press get a hold of him being flat-out wasted, they’ll never soften their grip. “I’m standing outside your bedroom window, I think? Maybe it’s your mom’s. Maybe this isn’t the right house—“

She’s at her window in two steps (god, her floor is so cold), sliding it open carelessly because she know her mom’s not home. Black glances up, looking a little rough around the edges. Looking confused. Then he smiles brightly, still holding the Xtransceiver.

—

Black refuses her pleas to get inside, preferring to stand outside in the cold. White bites her lip and puts on a sweatshirt and some baggy jeans over her pajamas and runs outside, hoping she hasn’t got any dry drool on her cheek.

“Sorry, this was stupid,” Black says, leaning against the wall of her house. “I didn’t think – I mean, I thought – but I guess I shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispers, feeling hollow. “I know, like – um, I know we’re not really friends—“

Black’s eyes get very wide, very serious. He stops wobbling, shoulders tense.

“Why would you say that?”

“I-I didn’t think you’d actually consider me—“ she starts, stuttering, “I mean, I don’t know, I didn’t want to impose, or, or anything—“

“You aren’t,” he says quickly, reminding her of a police car flying past. “We’re friends. I trust you.”

And White feels warm, despite the snow crunching under her sneakers. Black looks away from her, eyes on the dark sky; today, it’s cloudy, and they can’t see the stars. Black still takes his time staring, like he’s mapping out the gray fluff, wondering what it would feel to the touch.

“Did I ever tell you about N,” he begins, slowly.

“Black,“ White cuts in, feeling short of breath, “if you don’t want to talk about it – if this is just because you’re drunk, I-I don’t feel comfortable—“

“It’s not,” Black says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince her. Or himself. “I mean,” he backtracks, “it might be because I’m drunk. Whatever. Does it matter? It doesn’t. I still wanna talk about it. Whether I’m drunk or not. You know. I don’t think I’ll regret it. Would you – would you mind?”

“Of course not,” she says, and wraps her hand around his. Black’s fingers mimic hers, deepening the contact, sliding between her knuckles. They’re cold but they feel warm.

She listens to him talk until the clouds part, until dawn greets them with pale sunshine, until Black’s head droops and leans on her shoulder. White feels guilty and doesn’t know why; she looks straight ahead until he wakes up, because she’d kiss him if she didn’t.

—

Plasma’s aftershocks linger. White feels them – mostly because now she knows Plasma is not just a weird team, it’s also N. And though she hasn’t quite understood where N stands, she knows he was once important.

Sitting in the hallway of the precinct, waiting for her mom to get off work, White admires the wanted poster that is pinned onto the board. N’s green eyes aren’t sunken like the other people’s – they are vibrant, willing. Everyone is a hero in their own story, but she thinks N could’ve been a hero in hers, too.

She rocks her feet, back and forth, and wonders. N’s gone, now, and Black had told her he didn’t think he would ever come back; isn’t that sad? A final goodbye in a crumbling arena. That’s all Black’s ever going to get out of N.

“We could’ve been friends,” was what Black had told her, in a whispered slur, “but I don’t think we ever were. Too different. Also, he was annoying – he was really annoying.” But he had been smiling. He probably hadn’t even realized. “He was so stupid.”

White stands up, looks around, and then rips the poster out, folding it inside her jeans’ pocket.

—

“Hey,” Black says, waving at her. White grins at him, jogging in his direction. Her serperior – who has finally deemed it warm enough to leave the house, the traitor – slithers after her, glaring at Black like he’s suspicious. Today, it’s sunny, like a spring day, and White has just come back from a shopping spree in Castelia.

“Hey!” she replies, catching her breath. Her bags flutter around her wrists, creaking. “It’s been a while! How’ve you been?”

It hasn’t been a while; it’s been four days. White still feels like she hasn’t seen him in forever.

“My mom found out I stole her whiskey,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m grounded.”

The former champion of Unova, wielder of frightening monsters and scarily trained techniques: grounded. White bursts into giggles, hitting him in the arm as she struggles to breathe between fits of laughter. Black struggles with his own smile, unwilling to laugh at his own pain, and then takes half the bags from her hands. White lets him.

“I don’t really mind – it’s not like I was planning on travelling again. Not so soon, at least.” He peers at the almost absurd quantity of bags. “Out doing some Christmas shopping?”

White nods. “Yeah, but half of these are just groceries. I’m a pretty big eater.”

“I’ve noticed.” They walk towards the bus stop, their safe haven, and sit down. White’s leg is close to his. She doesn’t move away. When Black leans against the glass pane behind him, their knees touch. She returns her serperior after it begins glaring at Black again.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “I mean, like—“

“I know what you mean.” He sighs. “I think so. The hype is dying a little. I don’t get any photographers outside my house anymore, at least.” Black grins. White doesn’t – feels fake. “But yeah, I’m okay. I’ve been meeting Bianca a lot, and Cheren too – though he’s always busy,” he adds, rolling his eyes. Then, like he is reminded of something: “You should meet them!”

Oh. White feels flushed – doesn’t that sound like someone introducing their partner to their friends? What if they don’t like her? What if Bianca has liked him since first grade, or something lovely like that? Or what if Cheren has been in love with him for years? White droops.

“Don’t worry, they’re gonna love you. Plus – I dunno, sometimes I think Bianca needs to have a friend who’s a girl.” His face twists. White forgoes being nervous, smiling at him. “Would you like to meet them?”

“I guess,” she replies. “Won’t it be awkward, though?”

“No,” Black says, offhand, “they’ve been asking about you for a while, to be honest.”

“Really?” she asks, straightening in the metal bench. Their knees bump, but Black doesn’t seem like he minds. White obviously doesn’t. “What have you been telling them?”

“That I met you in a rainy bus stop, and that I didn’t know Nuvema had any other kids our age that I had never met before. Cheren got pissed off at me, because he said I had to have known you in grade school, but, to be honest,” and he glances at her warily, “I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay – I don’t remember you, either. Mostly because I went to Accumula grade school,” she adds, laughing. “It’s kind of funny, though. We’ve lived here for our entire lives, but we’ve never even passed by each other.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m glad we did,” Black says, getting up from the bench to signal the bus. It takes White a few seconds to reboot – her system has definitely overheated – but she follows after him, grinning.

—

She hits it off with Bianca – so fast, actually, that Cheren and Black both give them odd looks. Cheren, well, he's not as friendly as Bianca, but White still likes him, nevertheless. They all head down to the skating rink that has been set up downtown. White isn't very good, but Black is worse than her. Cheren refuses to set foot inside the rink and only gets convinced after Bianca pleads with him.

"Are they dating," White whispers, both hands on the rail. Cheren and Bianca are on the other side. Bianca seems to be a natural at skating (White is kind of jealous).

"Who? What – Cheren and Bianca?" Black laughs, shaking his head, and then looks at them, ready to tell her of course not, but doesn't. "Huh," he says instead, amusement dying.

White politely refrains from telling him he's oblivious as heck, but only because Black chooses that moment to fall down, his hands grabbing at her sleeve, taking her down with him. At least he's not being followed by paparazzo anymore, because White ends up half-sitting on him and the girly magazines would go wild.

—

Christmas Day is upon them before White can say eggnog. She spends the morning with her mother, waking her up with pancakes and coffee, but she leaves in the afternoon – after she's opened her mother's presents, of course, what is she, stupid? She gets a new jacket, a couple of socks (the sturdy, warm kind), and a newer version of the Xtransceiver.

"You shouldn't have, mom," she gasps, kissing her mother on the cheek. She hands her mother the necklace she's bought, waiting eagerly. Her mother likes it, still smiling even as White pulls on her new jacket and runs out the door (she has to return to get the plastic bag where she's put her presents, but no one has to know).

"Hey," Black greets, standing outside the café. He's wearing a scarf that looks new, as well as a pair of gloves. His cheeks are flushed – from the cold, White assumes. "What's all that?" he adds, peering at her bag expectantly.

"Like you don't know," White says grumpily, hitting him on the arm with the bag. Black winces. She laughs, then, dissolving her frown. "Let's just get inside, I'm freezing."

She isn't; she just wants to have an excuse to stand closer to him. She gets it, too, when they find Bianca and Cheren already sitting down, side by side. White scoots next to him, her thigh touching his. She watches him, just a side-glance, just to know if his expression changes. It doesn't.

They make their orders and White hands them presents when they're done eating, much to Cheren and Bianca's surprise. The blond girl looks crestfallen: she didn't know she was supposed to bring presents.

"Ah, er, it's okay! I just like shopping a lot, and—oh, I don't know, I just thought you'd like it!" White says, grinning at her. Cheren looks just as awkward, fumbling with his wrapped set of pokéballs.

"Hey – a travel guide! Thanks," Black says, with a smile the size of the world. White buries her nose inside her scarf, and then wonders if she could ask the waiter to turn down the heating, because she's boiling hot. "It'll come in handy when I get back to the road."

"I'm glad you like it," she replies, but what she'd say if they were alone would be, do you really plan on continuing your journey? She sips the rest of her hot chocolate instead, listening to the other three as they chat about Christmas and presents and how Bianca is going to give White a present, too.

Eventually, the conversation trickles down into what kind of dinner party their parents will set up, and how Cheren doesn't really feel like meeting his great aunt, but he has to, ugh, or how Bianca has to go and help her mom cook the rest of the desserts, and suddenly – after cheerful goodbyes and promises to get together tomorrow – White finds herself alone with Black. Their thighs are still touching, her temperature is still resting in the space between hot and uncomfortable, and she doesn't know what to talk about.

Turns out she doesn't have to talk about anything:

"I got you something, too, actually," Black says, off-hand, searching for his pocket. His hand misses the first time, brushing against her leg, but eventually he produces a small jewelry box. White is absolutely sure she's blushing very hard and she hates herself for it, but—

"Oh," she whispers, opening it. The earrings are simple, a mix of silver and blue, but White would choose them over anything else. Plus, diamonds are overrated. "You didn't have to."

Black shrugs.

"You didn't have to, either. 'Sides, I wanted to give you something. You kind of – well, you kinda got me out of my weird funky moping period." He smiles at her. "That's me thanking you for it."

He pays for her, she lets him, and when they leave, White pecks him on the cheek. Black's cheeks bloom into red and White smiles all the way home, not even wincing when the wind picks up. She's not sure he likes her back, and she's not sure they're going to start holding hands on the street even if he does like her back, but she's satisfied with this. For now. White's always been patient and she knows Black needs time to sort out all the knots in his head.

Her feet shuffle between the crispy, last leaves of the season – they're overlapping the pavement, like a thin, noisy carpet – and White jogs across them, laughing in the winter air. Spring will come in time, after all.