Waking up in a bed overcrowded with humans and Pokémon was… an experience.
Ash surfaced slowly, blinking against the pale light filtering through the curtains. Pikachu was curled snug against his ribs, a warm, familiar weight. Eevee had stretched himself across Ash's legs like a stubborn blanket he couldn't bring himself to shove away. Beside him, Yellow lay half-buried in the covers, hair a tangle of gold across the pillow. Doduo's two heads drooped protectively over her, one snoring softly, the other twitching at every sound. At the bed's foot, Pidgeotto had claimed a corner of the blanket, feathers puffed and head tucked beneath one wing, while Butterfree clung to the curtain rod, wings folded neatly as if pretending to be part of the room.
The air was thick with the faint scents of clean linen and Pokémon musk — earthy, warm, lived‑in. Ash shifted carefully, trying not to disturb the fragile balance of tails, wings, and limbs. Yellow stirred, her lashes fluttering as she took in the cozy tangle around them. A faint, breathy laugh slipped from her, more felt than heard. Pikachu twitched an ear at the sound; Eevee yawned without budging. For a moment, nobody made a move to rise. The closeness, the quiet breathing, the simple warmth of being together — it was the kind of morning that could almost trick them into thinking the world outside didn't exist.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm.
Mornings belonged to learning. Ash would claim the small corner table with a stack of notebooks from The Viridian Quill, a stubby pencil, and the sign‑language guide. He'd scrawl a single letter in large, careful strokes, then slide the notebook toward her.
"A."
Yellow copied it, her pencil pressing too hard, the line wobbling as if her hand didn't trust itself. She'd frown, erase, try again — sometimes erasing so much the paper tore. When her shoulders drooped in defeat, Ash would calmly flip to a fresh page.
"It's fine. New page, new try."
Progress was slow. By the end of the first day, her A was solid, but her B looked like it might collapse sideways at any moment. Sign language was just as shaky: they stuck to simple words from the book — you, me, yes, no, friend. She'd get one right, then forget it the next time. More often than not, they both ended up laughing until their sides ached. The laughter didn't erase the mistakes, but it softened them into something they could try again from.
Afternoons were for the training yard. Pikachu practised sparking bursts of energy, Spearow and Pidgeotto drilled in the air, Butterfree sharpened his powder control, Eevee darted between them all with quick reflex games, and Chansey… mostly supervised, with a sly air that promised mischief. Yellow usually sat on the low wall with her flute balanced in her lap, watching with quiet determination. She wasn't training for the gym, but she wanted to reconnect with Doduo.
Sometimes, between Ash's drills, she'd lift the flute and try a note. Once, a clean, low tone made Doduo perk up and trot toward her — only for the next attempt to squeak so sharply that Pikachu winced mid‑sprint. Ash, jogging past, shot her a quick grin. "That first one was good. Keep chasing that."
On the second day, Nurse Joy released Spearow back to them, a neat bandage wrapping his injured eye. Yellow reached out instinctively to stroke his feathers. For once, the prickly bird didn't flinch. He leaned into her hand, feathers relaxing under her gentle touch. Ash caught the moment, then said firmly, "You're still grounded. No drills until that eye's healed."
Spearow clicked his beak in irritation but didn't argue. His gaze flicked toward the Centre building, feathers ruffling uneasily at some memory best left unspoken. Yellow noticed the shiver through his wings and kept her hand steady against his neck until he stilled again.
Later that afternoon, Ash tried a new combination with Pidgeotto — a sharp dive into a sudden pull‑up — and mistimed it. Pidgeotto wobbled, landing awkwardly. Ash muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Yellow caught his eye and signed, a little clumsily but clear enough: Try again. He did — and this time, the manoeuvre was clean.
By the third day, Chansey launched her revenge campaign. Waddling into the yard with the sweetest, most dangerous smile, she flicked her stubby arms and cranked up Gravity. Suddenly, Pikachu's leaps became pitiful hops, Spearow's wings flapped uselessly, Pidgeotto floundered in sluggish arcs, and even Ash felt his knees sag like lead. "Chansey!" he groaned, trying not to collapse. She clasped her hands innocently as if she hadn't just turned the world into a weighted blanket. Yellow doubled over in silent laughter, flute shaking in her hands. Ash muttered darkly, "We are never leaving her with Nurse Joy unsupervised again."
Evenings quieted down. Yellow would sit cross‑legged on the bed, flute warm between her palms, coaxing notes into the silence. Sometimes she managed a clear sound; more often, it broke midway into a squeak. At the desk, Ash scribbled battle notes, glancing up whenever she struck a note that rang better than before. "That one was good," he'd murmur, and she'd duck her head, trying to hide the small spark of pride flickering in her eyes.
But there were other nights — the harder ones — when after another squeak or broken note, Yellow would lower the flute and press it against her chest, shoulders curling in as though to shield it. Her brows would knit, and when she looked at Ash, there was no anger in her eyes — only that quiet, defeated ache of someone wondering if they weren't good enough.
Ash caught that look one evening and, for a moment, the image of the Whisperwind shop came back to him — the way the flute's first note had flowed from her like it had been waiting for her, the way Doduo had listened with both heads tilted, spellbound.
He crossed the room, crouching a little to meet her eyes. "Hey," he said softly. "Remember that first sound you played? That wasn't luck. That was you. This flute… it chose you. And Doduo heard it too. And so did I."
Yellow blinked at him, her grip on the flute tightening for a heartbeat before easing. The frown didn't vanish, but it softened, and she gave the smallest of nods. She lifted the flute again, her lips set with determination rather than doubt.
By the last night before the battle, she could write A through E recognisably (though B still leaned like it was trying to run away). It was only a handful of letters, a few halting signs and one reliable note — each carved out through patience and persistence
She could sign you, me, yes, no, and friend without prompting, though friend still took a moment's hesitation. On the flute, she had one short trill that Doduo responded to about half the time. It wasn't much, but it was hers — something carved from effort, not handed to her.
That evening, they sat side by side at the table, the battered notebook and guide spread open between them.
"Tomorrow's the gym. You ready to watch me win?"
Yellow smiled faintly and signed yes, the movement stiff but steady. She tapped the flute against her knee, her gaze calm and resolute.
Ash smiled, the nervous edge in his chest easing. Whatever tomorrow brought, he wouldn't be walking into it alone — not when their mornings, their laughter, and even their crowded nights had bound them this close. And he knew, come the next dawn, they'd wake again in that same tangle of limbs, wings, and fur — and it would feel like home. The kind of home they were still learning to build, one note, one word, one day at a time.
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(AN: So, another slow chapter of wholesome fluff. Is it being done correctly?
Question: Should I change Roshi's appearance when he was given the name so many chapters back? I feel like I can do better than that.)