Hotel.

Rye supposed it was a small mercy. No noise. No eager reporters shoving microphones in his face. No one to pick and prod at him.

Though, they probably wouldn't. He wasn’t the famous one anymore, was he? No longer was he the ‘kid with potential’. He wasn’t one of the kids who could rival the Champion anymore.

Rye was tired.

Its lips were dry and split. Its eyes were heavy with sleep. Its chest ached with every breath, the wound snagging against its shirt. Its cheek was raw and red, tears festering in its eyes as it leaned on the couch’s armrest, listening to something go on and on and on and on-

Something?

Someone. Someone.

Lark. Right. right. Fourth place, finalist, famous Lark. Whatever the title was.

...

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” they asked. “When’s the last time you slept?”

Rye didn’t respond. It wasn’t a kid. It wouldn’t break down in tears over something so stupid.

“…Cheer up, Lucky. You’ll get it next time.”

“…Won’t be a next time.” Rye's tongue felt swollen.

“Oh! Hm. I guess you’re right.” Lark hopped onto the bed next to it. “Oh well. You can’t win them all, can you?”

You really couldn’t. Rye gripped the seat cushion and tried not to dry heave.

It should’ve been happy. It should’ve been happy that Lark got so far. Lark was its friend. Rival. Lark wanted this. Rye wanted it too.

“But who cares? Who cares if you didn’t make it to the tournament? Lark went on, kicking his feet and smiling. It barely reached his eyes. “You’re still number one in my heart!”

Rye bit his lip.

“But you could’ve gone far, I bet. If you didn’t drop out. That was ‘cause….what, you lost to me?” Lark clicked his tongue. “Hm.”

If Rye tried to speak now, his voice would crack.

“It wasn’t even an official match, Arc. It was a training one. Right. Mm…” Lark looked up at him. His smile fell. “Mr. Grayson won’t be happy with that, would he?”

Oh. Right. Right.

“He was probably watching the telly, right? Waiting for you to show up on that screen. But you never did. Wonder how that made him feel.”

Nothing, probably.

Some fireworks went off outside. Faint blue and red light splashed across the hotel’s carpet.

"You won't be able to repay him now...sad!" Lark hummed. "What did you promise him, again?"

Rye blinked. Tears sprung to his eyes.

“I mean, you could probably find work somewhere. Maybe as an Ace Trainer. Ooh! Or one of those Battle Tower guys.” Lark snapped their fingers. “Doesn’t that sound fun? Standing in a tower for the rest of your life? Battling people over and over?”

Rye didn’t reply. How could he? Lark was right.

…Lark sighed.

“Whatever, man. You brought this on yourself, you know. No use in pouting over it.”

He was right.

There wasn’t.

Even if Rye was so close.

Even if he was so close, and fumbled it right at the end.

No use in crying over something you did to yourself.

Someone shook its shoulder.

Rye yelped, eyes snapping open and sitting up. A jolt a pain shot through its stomach.

“Woah! Hey, hey. It’s just me.”

Just Lark. Lark.

Lark?

Rye looked over at him. He was smiling, holding up some plastic bag.

His rival.

Fourth place.

“Got some food from the store! You like that grape soda, right?” they went on, pulling out a bottle and holding it out. “Got some snacks, too. Was thinking of watching a movie tonight- you wanna do that?”

Rye glanced at the bed. Was…

…

“…Sure,” it replied with a practiced smile. “Surprised you’re so nonchalant about all this.”

Lark shrugged. “What am I supposed to do?”

Rye shrugged in turn. “Celebrate your victory?”

“Lucky. Fourth place isn’t really celebration-worthy.”

“Eeh. Sure.”

“...Whatever. I’m gonna find the remote.”

Rye opened the bottle as Lark turned around. He took a sip. He didn't really like this flavor anymore. He watched Lark.

Watched them shrug off a title it would've killed to have. A title it could've had.

He tilted his head back and felt nothing at all.

Absolutely, utterly,

nothing.